“What other child?”

“The son of my old friend, the Indian Prince.”

“Djalma?  Is there anything the matter with him?”

“Father, he frightens me.  I told you, father, of his mad and unhappy passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville.”

“Does that frighten you, my son?” said the old man, looking at the marshal with surprise.  “Djalma is only eighteen, and, at that age, one love drives away another.”

“You have no idea of the ravages which the passion has already made in the ardent, indomitable boy; sometimes, fits of savage ferocity follow the most painful dejection.  Yesterday, I came suddenly upon him; his eyes were bloodshot, his features contracted with rage; yielding to an impulse of mad furry, he was piercing with his poinard a cushion of red cloth, whilst he exclaimed, panting for breath, ‘Ha blood!—­I will have blood!’ ‘Unhappy boy!’ I said to him, ‘what means this insane passion?’ ’I’m killing the man!’ replied he, in a hollow and savage voice:  it is thus he designates his supposed rival.”

“There is indeed something terrible,” said the old man, “in such a passion, in such a heart.”

“At other times,” resumed the marshal, “it is against Mdlle. de Cardoville that his rage bursts forth; and at others, against himself.  I have been obliged to remove his weapons, for a man who came with him from Java, and who appears much attached to him, has informed me that he suspected him of entertaining some thoughts of suicide.”

“Unfortunate boy!”

“Well, father,” said Marshal Simon, with profound bitterness; “it is at the moment when my daughters and my adopted son require all my solicitude, that I am perhaps on the eve of quitting them.”

“Of quitting them?”

“Yes, to fulfil a still more sacred duty than that imposed by friendship or family,” said the marshal, in so grave and solemn a tone, that his father exclaimed, with deep emotion:  “What can this duty be?”

“Father,” said the marshal, after remaining a moment in thoughtful silence, “who made me what I am?  Who gave me the ducal title, and the marshal’s baton?”

“Napoleon.”

“For you, the stern republican, I know that he lost all his value, when from the first citizen of a Republic he became an emperor.

“I cursed his weakness,” said Father Simon, sadly; “the demi-god sank into a man.”

“But for me, father—­for me, the soldier, who have always fought beside him, or under his eye—­for me, whom he raised from the lowest rank in the army to the highest—­for me, whom he loaded with benefits and marks of affection—­for me, he was more than a hero, he was a friend—­and there was as much gratitude as admiration in my idolatry for him.  When he was exiled, I would fain have shared his exile; they refused me that favor; then I conspired, then I drew my sword against those who had robbed his son of the crown which France had given him.”