“Come, Adolphe,” he said, “get up; we have much to say to each other, my friend.  I have heard much of what you have done here, in Laval and in Brittany.  You have been of great service to us; but we must act together for the future.  Of course you know that there are 80,000 Vendeans on this side of the river:  men, women, and children together.”

For some minutes Denot still lay with his face buried in the bed, without answering, and Henri knelt beside him in silence, trying to comfort him rather by the pressure of his hand, Than by the sound of his voice; but then he raised himself up, and sitting erect, with his face turned away from his friend, he said: 

“It’s no use for you to try to speak of what I have done in Brittany, when we both know that your heart is full of what I did in Poitou.”

“By the God of heaven, from whom I hope for mercy,” said Henri, solemnly, “I have freely, entirely forgiven you all cause of anger I ever had against you.”

Denot still sat with his face averted, and he withdrew his hand from Henri’s grasp, as he muttered between his teeth:  “I have not asked for forgiveness; I do not want forgiveness;” and then starting up on his feet, he exclaimed almost with a shriek:  “How dare you to talk to me, Sir, of forgiveness?  Forgiveness!  I suppose you think I have nothing to forgive!  I suppose you think I have no injuries which rankle in my breast!  A broken heart is nothing!  Shattered ambition is nothing!  A tortured, lingering, wretched life is nothing!  I suppose you will offer me your pity next; but know, Sir, that I despise both your forgiveness and your pity.”

“I will offer you nothing but my friendship, Adolphe,” said Henri.  “You will not refuse my friendship, will you?  We were brothers always, you know; at least in affection.”

“Brothers always!  No, we were never brothers:  we never, never can be brothers,” screamed the poor madman through his closed teeth.  “Oh! if we could have been brothers; if—­if we could be brothers!” and the long cherished idea, which, in his frenzy, he even yet had hardly quite abandoned, flashed across his brain, and softened his temper.

“We can at any rate be friends,” said Henri, approaching him, and again taking his hand.  “Come, Adolphe, sit down by me, and let us talk quietly of these things.”

“There are some things,” said he, in a more composed manner, “of which a man can’t very well talk quietly.  A man can’t very well talk quietly of hell-fire, when he’s in the middle of it.  Now, I’m in the very hottest of hell-fire at this moment.  How do you think I can bear to look at you, without sinking into cinders at your feet?”

Henri was again silent for a time, for he did not know what to say to comfort the afflicted man; but, after a while, Denot himself continued speaking.