a resolute step; expel even that secret shame, that shyness, which a noble soul experiences before it can resolve upon flattering—­upon paying what the world calls its court.  Alas, kings are accustomed to these continual expressions of false admiration for them!  Look upon them as a new language which must be learned—­a language hitherto foreign to your lips, but which, believe me, may be nobly spoken, and which may express high and generous thoughts.”

During this warm discourse of his friend, Cinq-Mars could not refrain from a sudden blush; and he turned his head on his pillow toward the tent, so that his face might not be seen.  De Thou stopped: 

“What is the matter, Henri?  You do not answer.  Am I deceived?”

Cinq-Mars gave a deep sigh and remained silent.

“Is not your heart affected by these ideas which I thought would have transported it?”

The wounded man looked more calmly at his friend and said: 

“I thought, my dear De Thou, that you would not interrogate me further, and that you were willing to repose a blind confidence in me.  What evil genius has moved you thus to sound my soul?  I am not a stranger to these ideas which possess you.  Who told you that I had not conceived them?  Who told you that I had not formed the firm resolution of prosecuting them infinitely farther in action than you have put them in words?  Love for France, virtuous hatred of the ambition which oppresses and shatters her ancient institutions with the axe of the executioner, the firm belief that virtue may be as skilful as crime,—­these are my gods as much as yours.  But when you see a man kneeling in a church, do you ask him what saint or what angel protects him and receives his prayer?  What matters it to you, provided that he pray at the foot of the altars that you adore—­provided that, if called upon, he fall a martyr at the foot of those ’altars?  When our forefathers journeyed with naked feet toward the Holy Sepulchre, with pilgrims’ staves in their hands, did men inquire the secret vow which led them to the Holy Land?  They struck, they died; and men, perhaps God himself, asked no more.  The pious captain who led them never stripped their bodies to see whether the red cross and haircloth concealed any other mysterious symbol; and in heaven, doubtless, they were not judged with any greater rigor for having aided the strength of their resolutions upon earth by some hope permitted to a Christian—­some second and secret thought, more human, and nearer the mortal heart.”

De Thou smiled and slightly blushed, lowering his eyes.

“My friend,” he answered, gravely; “this excitement may be injurious to you.  Let us not continue this subject; let us not mingle God and heaven in our discourse.  It is not well; and draw the coverings over your shoulder, for the night is cold.  I promise you,” he added, covering his young invalid with a maternal care—­“I promise not to offend you again with my counsels.”