“Well, general?”

“D’Havrincourt remained impassible ceremoniously polite.  To all my questions he answered coldly:  ’I am not aware, my lord duke, that any calumny has been circulated with regard to you.’—­’Do not call me “my lord duke,” my dear D’Havrincourt; we are old fellow-soldiers and friends, my honor is somewhat touchy, I confess, and I find that you and our comrades do not receive me so cordially, as in times past.  You do not deny it; I see, I know, I feel it.’  To all this D’Havrincourt answered, with the same coldness:  ’I have never seen any one wanting in respect towards you.’—­’I am not talking of respect,’ exclaimed I, as I clasped his hand affectionately, though I observed that he but feebly returned the pressure; ’I speak of cordiality, confidence, which I once enjoyed, while now I am treated like a stranger.  Why is it?  What has occasioned this change?’—­Still cold and reserved, he answered:  ’These distinctions are so nice, marshal, that it is impossible for me to give you any opinion on the subject.’—­My heart swelled with grief and anger.  What was I to do?  To quarrel with D’Havrincourt would have been absurd.  A sense of dignity forced me to break off the interview, but it has only confirmed my fears.  Thus,” added the marshal, getting more and more animated, “thus am I fallen from the esteem to which I am entitled, thus am I despised, without even knowing the cause!  Is it not odious?  If they would only utter a charge against me—­I should at least be able to defend myself, and to find an answer.  But no, no! not even a word—­only the cold politeness that is worse than any insult.  Oh! it is too much, too much! for all this comes but in addition to other cares.  What a life is mine since the death of my father!  If I did but find rest and happiness at home—­but no!  I come in, but to read shameful letters; and still worse,” added the marshal, in a heartrending tone, and after a moment’s hesitation, “to find my children grow more and more indifferent towards me—­“Yes,” continued he, perceiving the amazement of Dagobert, “and yet they know how much I love them!”

“Your daughters indifferent!” exclaimed Dagobert, in astonishment.  “You make them such a reproach?”

“Oh!  I do not blame them.  They have hardly had time to know me.”

“Not had time to know you?” returned the soldier, in a tone of remonstrance, and warming up in his turn.  “Ah! of what did their mother talk to them, except you? and I too! what could I teach your children except to know and love you?”

“You take their part—­that is natural—­they love you better than they do me,” said the marshal, with growing bitterness.  Dagobert felt himself so painfully affected, that he looked at the marshal without answering.