“That cross—­given by him—­is my relic.  It is there in my knapsack, with whatever we have of value—­our little purse and papers.  But, to return to your mother; it was a great consolation to her, when I took her letters from the general, or talked with her about him—­for she suffered much—­oh, so much!  In vain her parents tormented and persecuted her; she always answered:  ‘I will never marry any one but General Simon.’  A spirited woman, I can tell you—­resigned, but wonderfully courageous.  One day she received a letter from the general; he had left the Isle of Elba with the Emperor; the war had again broken out, a short campaign, but as fierce as ever, and heightened by soldiers’ devotion.  In that campaign of France; my children, especially at Montmirail, your father fought like a lion, and his division followed his example it was no longer valor—­it was frenzy.  He told me that, in Champagne, the peasants killed so many of those Prussians, that their fields were manured with them for years.  Men, women, children, all rushed upon them.  Pitchforks, stones, mattocks, all served for the slaughter.  It was a true wolf hunt!”

The veins swelled on the soldier’s forehead, and his cheeks flushed as he spoke, for this popular heroism recalled to his memory the sublime enthusiasm of the wars of the republic—­those armed risings of a whole people, from which dated the first steps of his military career, as the triumphs of the Empire were the last days of his service.

The orphans, too, daughters of a soldier and a brave woman, did not shrink from the rough energy of these words, but felt their cheeks glow, and their hearts beat tumultuously.

“How happy we are to be the children of so brave a father!” cried Blanche.

“It is a happiness and an honor too, my children—­for the evening of the battle of Montmirail, the Emperor, to the joy of the whole army, made your father Duke of Ligny and Marshal of France.”

“Marshal of France!” said Rose in astonishment, without understanding the exact meaning of the words.

“Duke of Ligny!” added Blanche with equal surprise.

“Yes; Peter Simon, the son of a workman, became duke and marshal—­there is nothing higher except a king!” resumed Dagobert, proudly.  “That’s how the Emperor treated the sons of the people, and, therefore, the people were devoted to him.  It was all very fine to tell them ’Your Emperor makes you food for cannon.’  ‘Stuff!’ replied the people, who are no fools, ’another would make us food for misery.  We prefer the cannon, with the chance of becoming captain or colonel, marshal, king—­or invalid; that’s better than to perish with hunger, cold, and age, on straw in a garret, after toiling forty years for others.’”

“Even in France—­even in Paris, that beautiful city—­do you mean to say there are poor people who die of hunger and misery, Dagobert?”