“Let’s leave him out of this,” broke in General D’Hubert.

The Chevalier shrugged his peaked shoulders.

“A Feraud of sorts.  Offspring of a blacksmith and some village troll....  See what comes of mixing yourself up with that sort of people.”

“You have made shoes yourself, Chevalier.”

“Yes.  But I am not the son of a shoemaker.  Neither are you, Monsieur D’Hubert.  You and I have something that your Bonaparte’s, princes, dukes, and marshals have not because there’s no power on earth that could give it to them,” retorted the emigre, with the rising animation of a man who has got hold of a hopeful argument.  “Those people don’t exist—­all these Ferauds.  Feraud!  What is Feraud?  A va-nu-pieds disguised into a general by a Corsican adventurer masquerading as an emperor.  There is no earthly reason for a D’Hubert to s’encanailler by a duel with a person of that sort.  You can make your excuses to him perfectly well.  And if the manant takes it into his head to decline them you may simply refuse to meet him.”  “You say I may do that?” “Yes.  With the clearest conscience.” “Monsieur le Chevalier! To what do you think you have returned from your emigration?”

This was said in such a startling tone that the old exile raised sharply his bowed head, glimmering silvery white under the points of the little tricorne.  For a long time he made no sound.

“God knows!” he said at last, pointing with a slow and grave gesture at a tall roadside cross mounted on a block of stone and stretching its arms of forged stone all black against the darkening red band in the sky.  “God knows!  If it were not for this emblem, which I remember seeing in this spot as a child, I would wonder to what we, who have remained faithful to our God and our king, have returned.  The very voices of the people have changed.”

“Yes, it is a changed France,” said General D’Hubert.  He had regained his calm.  His tone was slightly ironic.  “Therefore, I cannot take your advice.  Besides, how is one to refuse to be bitten by a dog that means to bite?  It’s impracticable.  Take my word for it.  He isn’t a man to be stopped by apologies or refusals.  But there are other ways.  I could, for instance, send a mounted messenger with a word to the brigadier of the gendarmerie in Senlac.  These fellows are liable to arrest on my simple order.  It would make some talk in the army, both the organised and the disbanded.  Especially the disbanded.  All canaille.  All my comrades once—­the companions in arms of Armand D’Hubert.  But what need a D’Hubert care what people who don’t exist may think?  Or better still, I might get my brother-in-law to send for the mayor of the village and give him a hint.  No more would be needed to get the three ‘brigands’ set upon with flails and pitchforks and hunted into some nice deep wet ditch.  And nobody the wiser!  It has been done only ten miles from here to three poor devils of the disbanded Red Lancers of the Guard going to their homes.  What says your conscience, Chevalier?  Can a D’Hubert do that thing to three men who do not exist?”