At last he crept downstairs and rang at the bell of Mme Burle's flat.
Five minutes elapsed, and then the old lady appeared.
"I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting," she said; "I thought that
dormouse Rose was still about. I must go and shake her."
But the major detained her.
"Where is Burle?" he asked.
"Oh, he has been snoring since nine o'clock. Would you like to knock at
his door?"
"No, no, I only wanted to have a chat with you."
In the parlor Charles sat at his usual place, having just finished his
exercises. He looked terrified, and his poor little white hands were
tremulous. In point of fact, his grandmother, before sending him to bed,
was wont to read some martial stories aloud so as to develop the latent
family heroism in his bosom. That night she had selected the episode of
the Vengeur, the man-of-war freighted with dying heroes and sinking into
the sea. The child, while listening, had become almost hysterical, and
his head was racked as with some ghastly nightmare.
Mme Burle asked the major to let her finish the perusal. "Long live the
republic!" She solemnly closed the volume. Charles was as white as a
sheet.
"You see," said the old lady, "the duty of every French soldier is to
die for his country.
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