“Don’t think I’ve put my heart in the money,” he said, laying a hand on Gaston’s shoulder, and looking wistfully into his face; “I’d hand it to you for your own, to do as you liked with it, if I were alone in the world; but I’m not, frère. I’ve another to think of now.”
He drew away his hand, and averted his face quickly, but Gaston saw his lip quiver, and the drops gather in his brave, truthful eyes. He saw it all at a glance, and followed the recruit’s figure, as it disappeared again into his room, with an expression on his face that it was better for both François did not see; if he had
looked at his brother then he would have read a secret that would have pierced his heart like a sword. Gaston stood staring after him as if he had been turned to stone, his features fierce and hard-set, the veins in his forehead swelling and throbbing, all his frame shaken by a vehement struggle. Gaston mastered it, his face relaxed, and he went in after François.
“Frère,” he said, “you may trust me,” and held out his hand to him.
François clasped it, but looking at his brother with a puzzled smile:
“Trust thee!” he repeated, “as if I needed thy pledge for that! Brother, I trust thee as I trust my soul.”
“And, frère, as Monsieur le Curé said just now, the best and purest are chosen for the sacrifice; if—”
“Vive Dieu et le Roi!” cried François, raising his cap. Then he was silent a moment before he said:
“If I fall, you will be a good brother to Marie, and do what you can to comfort her.”
“And the money, what shall I do with it?”