because he was indicated under it, but because she had so vilified it—­his greatest desire to the friends who visited him in the condemned cell, was to have me, his son, change it.  They had me brought up at a distance under the name of Claudius Ruprecht.  It might even have happened that another country than that of my birth would receive the glory which a heaven-sent idea is to bestow upon France.  Now, I am more than ever determined that her venom shall not sully me.  She may cause a little ridicule to arise, but that I can scorn.  The laugh at Montmorency will not reach Paris, far less echo around the globe!  For a long time I hoped to enlighten her and redeem her, but I have failed.  But I am bound to enlighten you and save you, am I not?  From the feeling you harbor can spring only an additional shame for Cesarine, and certain, perhaps irreparable woe for you.  Stop, turn about and look the other way.  A man of twenty, who may naturally live another three-score years and work during two of them, who would talk to you of that nonsense, love’s sorrow?  That was all very well once, when the world revolved slowly and there was little to be done by the people who blocked nobody’s way.  But these are busy times and things to be done cannot wait till you finish loving and wailing, or till you die of a broken heart without having done anything for your fellow men.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed the sympathetical and easily aroused Italian, grasping the speaker by the hand and pressing it with revived energy.  “My excellent leader, you are right!”

“And by and by,” said the other, with an effort, as though he had to master inward commotion, “when you win a prize from your own country and you look for household joys more agreeably to reward you, you may find one not far from here at this moment to be your wife.  For, generally, the bane is near the antidote—­the serpent is crushed under the heel next the beneficent plant which heals the bite.”

“Rebecca?” questioned the young man in amazement.  “But if I can read her heart as you do mine, master, Rebecca Daniels loves you.”

“She admires me and pities me, Antonino,” replied Clemenceau, hastily, as if wishful to elude the question.  “She does not love me.  Besides, that is of no consequence.  I have no room for love again—­always provided that I have once loved.  Passion often has the honor of being confounded with the purer feeling, especially in the young.  Did I love that monster—­for she is a monster, Antonino—­I might forgive, for love excuses everything—­that is true love, but it is rare as virtue—­common sense and all that is truth.  To the altar of love, many are called, but few elected, and all are not fit.