“But now, Henri, tell me how it happens that I find you in Flanders when I thought you in Paris.”

“My brother,” said Henri, “life became insupportable to me at Paris, and I set out to join you in Flanders.”

“All from love?” asked Joyeuse.

“No, from despair.  Now, Anne, I am no longer in love; my passion is sadness.”

“My brother, permit me to tell you that you have chosen a miserable woman.  Virtue that cares not for the sufferings of others is barbarous—­is an absence of Christian charity.”

“Oh! my brother, do not calumniate virtue.”

“I do not calumniate virtue, Henri; I accuse vice, that is all.  I repeat that this is a miserable woman, and not worth all the torments she makes you suffer.  Oh! mon Dieu! in such a case you should use all your strength and all your power, Henri.  In your place, I should have taken her house by assault, and then herself; and when she was conquered, and came to throw her arms round your neck and say, ‘Henri, I adore you,’ I should have repulsed her, and said, ’You do well, madame; it is your turn—­I have suffered enough for you—­to suffer also.’”

Henri seized his brother’s hand.  “You do not mean a word of what you say,” said he.

“Yes, on my honor.”

“You, so good—­so generous!”

“Generosity with heartless people is folly.”

“Oh!  Joyeuse, Joyeuse, you do not know this woman.”

“No, I do not wish to know her.”

“Why not?”

“Because she would make me commit what others would call a crime, but which I should call an act of justice.”

“Oh! my good brother, how lucky you are not to be in love.  But, if you please, let us leave my foolish love, and talk of other things.”

“So be it; I do not like to talk of your folly.”

“You see we want provisions.”

“Yes, and I have thought of a method of getting them.”

“What is it?”

“I cannot leave here until I have certain news of the army—­for the position is good, and I could defend myself against five times our number:  but I may send out a body of scouts, and they will bring news and provisions also, for Flanders is a fine country.”

“Not very, brother.”

“I speak of it as God made it, and not men, who eternally spoil the works of God.  Do you know, Henri, what folly this prince committed—­what this unlucky Francois has lost through pride and precipitation?  His soul is gone to God, so let us be silent; but in truth he might have acquired immortal glory and one of the most beautiful kingdoms in Europe, while he has, on the contrary, aided no one but William of Orange.  But do you know, Henri, that the Antwerpians fought well?”

“And you also; so they say, brother.”

“Yes, it was one of my good days; and besides there was something that excited me.”

“What was it?”

“I met on the field of battle a sword that I knew.”