“Neither do I, sire. I was not putting forward the services of my son as a claim for this poor lad, but those of his two brothers who lost their lives, one at Wagram, the other at Friedland.”
“What better could have befallen them?”
“Nothing, in my estimation; but their mother....”
“France is their mother; she claims their allegiance and their life before any one. The man who puts his mother before his country is a fool or a coward!”
“This young man has not asked to be exempted; his mother came and besought me to have him spared to her, and, counting on your gratitude and generosity, sire, I have come to lay her petition at your feet. The boy himself is frantic to be off and die like his brothers.”
“Then he shall have his wish and France shall count one more hero. Tell his mother she shall have a pension. Give me her name, and it shall be done at once.”
“She is not in want of it, sire; she has wealth enough to buy a score of men, if they were to be had.”
“But they are not, and so her son must go.”
“This is your last word, sire?”
“Yes, marquis, my last.”