“Oh—­ah!—­to be sure; I had forgotten the release,” muttered Narcissus, and was resigned.

“By the way,” Dorothea asked, after a short pause, “what is happening at ‘The Dogs’ tonight?  All the windows are lit up in the Orange Room.  I saw it as I stepped out of the chaise.”

“Yes; I have to tell you”—­Narcissus turned towards his brother—­ “that during your absence another of the prisoners has found his discharge—­the old Admiral.”

“Dead?”

“He died this morning:  but you knew, of course, it was only a question of days.  Rochambeau was with him at the last.  He has shown great devotion.”

“You have made all arrangements, of course?” For Narcissus was Acting Commissary in his brother’s absence.

“I rode in at once on hearing the news, which Zeally brought before daylight; and found the Lodge”—­this was a Masonic Lodge formed among the prisoners, and named by them La Paix Desiree—­“anxious to pay him something more than the full rites.  With my leave they have hired the Orange Room, and turned it into a chapelle ardente; and there, I believe, he is reposing now, poor old fellow.”

“He has no kith nor kin, I understand.”

“None.  He was never married, and his relatives went in the Terror—­ the most of them (so Rochambeau tells me) in a single week.”

Dorothea had heard the same story from the General and from Raoul.  To this old warrior his Emperor had been friends, kindred, wife, and children—­nay, almost God.  He had enjoyed Napoleon’s favour, and followed his star from the days of the Directory:  in that favour and the future of France beneath that star his hopes had begun and ended.  His private ambitions he had resigned without a word on the day when he put to sea out of Brest, under order from Paris, to perform a feat he knew to be impossible, with ships ill-found, under-manned, and half-victualled by cheating contractors:  and he sailed cheerfully, believing himself sacrificed to some high purpose of his master’s.  When, the sacrifice made, he learned that the contractors slandered him to cover their own villainy, and that Napoleon either believed them or was indifferent, his heart broke.  Too proud at first, he had ended by drawing up a statement and forwarding it from his captivity, with a demand for an enquiry.  The answer to this was—­the letter which never came.

Dorothea thought of the room where she had danced and been happy:  the many lights, the pagan figures merrymaking on the panels, the goddess on the ceiling with her cupids and scattered roses, and, in the centre of it all, that dead face, incongruous and calm.

How small had been her tribulation beside his!  And it was all over for him now—­wages taken, account sealed up for judgment, parole ended, and no heir to trouble over him or his good name.

Next morning she rode into Axcester, as well to do some light shopping as because it seemed an age since her last visit, which, to be sure, was absurd, and she knew it.  Happening to meet General Rochambeau, she drew rein and very gently offered her condolence on the loss of his old friend.