“But, general, remember he is a priest—­”

“What do I care for that?  Have I not seen him handle the sword?  I will yet make a soldier’s blood rise to the forehead of the traitor!”

But, general—­”

“I tell you, that I must be avenged on some one,” cried the marshal, with an accent of the most violent exasperation; “I tell you, that I mast find a living representative of these cowardly plots, that I may at once make an end of him!—­They press upon me from all sides; they make my life a hell—­you know it—­and you do nothing to save me from these tortures, which are killing me as by a slow fire.  Can I have no one in whom to trust?”

“General, I can’t let you say that,” replied Dagobert, in a calm, but firm voice.

“And why not?”

“General, I can’t let you say that you have no one to trust to.  You might end perhaps in believing it, and then it would be even worse for yourself, than for those who well know their devotion for you, and would go through fire and water to serve you.  I am one of them—­and you know it.”

These simple words, pronounced by Dagobert with a tone of deep conviction, recalled the marshal to himself; for although his honorable and generous character might from time to time be embittered by irritation and grief, he soon recovered his natural equanimity.  So, addressing Dagobert in a less abrupt tone, he said to him, though still much agitated:  “You are right.  I could never doubt your fidelity.  But anger deprives me of my senses.  This infamous letter is enough to drive one mad.  I am unjust, ungrateful—­yes, ungrateful—­and to you!”

“Do not think of me, general.  With a kind word at the end, you might blow me up all the year round.  But what has happened?”

The general’s countenance again darkened, as he answered rapidly:  “I am looked down upon, and despised!”

“You?”

“Yes I. After all,” resumed the marshal bitterly, “why should I conceal from you this new wound?  If I doubted you a moment, I owe you some compensation, and you shall know all.  For some time past, I perceived that, when I meet any of my old companions in arms, they try to avoid me—­”

“What! was it to this that the anonymous letter alluded?”

“Yes; and it spoke the truth,” replied the marshal, with a sigh of grief and indignation.

“But it is impossible, general—­you are so loved and respected—­”

“Those are mere words; I speak of positive facts.  When I appear, the conversation is often interrupted.  Instead of treating me as an old comrade, they affect towards me a rigorously cold politeness.  There are a thousand little shades, a thousand trifles, which wound the heart, but which it is impossible to notice—­”

“What you are now saying, general, quite confounds me,” replied Dagobert.  “You assure me of it, and I am forced to believe you.”

“Oh, it is intolerable!  I was resolved to ease my heart of it; so, this morning, I went to General d’Havrincourt, who was colonel with me in the Imperial Guard; he is honor and honesty itself.  I went to him with open heart.  ‘I perceive,’ said I, ’the coldness that is shown me.  Some calumny must be circulating to my disadvantage.  Tell me all about it.  Knowing the attack, I shall be able to defend myself—­’