“My boy, when you are through with your pretty pictures,” Menard motioned toward the 29 plans, “and have got out into the real work; when you’ve spent months in Iroquois lodges; when you’ve been burned and shot and starved,––then it will be a pity if you haven’t learned to be a soldier. What is this little thing you are drawing?”
Danton flushed. “You may laugh at the engineers,” he said, “but where would King Louis be now if––”
“Tut, my boy, tut!”
“That is very well––”
Menard laughed. “How old are you, Danton?” he asked.
“Twenty-two.”
“Very good. You have got on well. I dare say you’ve learned a deal out of your books. Now we have you out here in the provinces, where the hard work is done. Well send you back in a few years a real man. And then you’ll step smartly among the pretty officers of the King, and when one speaks of New France you’ll lift your brows and say: ‘New France? Ah, yes. That is in America. I was there once. Rather a primitive life––no court, no army.’ Ah, ha, my boy––no, never mind. Come up to my quarters and have a sip of real old Burgundy.” 30
“Are you ever serious, Menard?” asked Danton, sitting on the Captain’s cot and smacking his lips over the liquor.
Menard smiled. “I’m afraid I shall have to play at composure for an hour,” he said. “I must see Father Claude. Settle yourself here, if you like.”
Menard hurried away, for it was growing late. He found the Jesuit meditating in his cell.