Farewell | Page 2

dear d'Albon, he happens to be
an old schoolfellow."
"Why, Philip, have you really forgotten your own language? You

surely must have left your wits behind you in Siberia," said the stouter
of the two, with a glance half-comic, half-pathetic at the guide-post
distant about a hundred paces from them.
"I understand," replied the one addressed as Philip. He snatched up his
rifle, suddenly sprang to his feet, made but one jump of it into the field,
and rushed off to the guide-post. "This way, d'Albon, here you are! left
about!" he shouted, gesticulating in the direction of the highroad. "/To
Baillet and l'Isle-Adam!/" he went on; "so if we go along here, we shall
be sure to come upon the cross-road to Cassan."
"Quite right, Colonel," said M. d'Albon, putting the cap with which he
had been fanning himself back on his head.
"Then /forward/! highly respected Councillor," returned Colonel Philip,
whistling to the dogs, that seemed already to obey him rather than the
magistrate their owner.
"Are you aware, my lord Marquis, that two leagues yet remain before
us?" inquired the malicious soldier. "That village down yonder must be
Baillet."
"Great heavens!" cried the Marquis d'Albon. "Go on to Cassan by all
means, if you like; but if you do, you will go alone. I prefer to wait here,
storm or no storm; you can send a horse for me from the chateau. You
have been making game of me, Sucy. We were to have a nice day's
sport by ourselves; we were not to go very far from Cassan, and go
over ground that I knew. Pooh! instead of a day's fun, you have kept me
running like a greyhound since four o'clock this morning, and nothing
but a cup or two of milk by way of breakfast. Oh! if ever you find
yourself in a court of law, I will take care that the day goes against you
if you were in the right a hundred times over."
The dejected sportsman sat himself down on one of the stumps at the
foot of the guide-post, disencumbered himself of his rifle and empty
game-bag, and heaved a prolonged sigh.
"Oh, France, behold thy Deputies!" laughed Colonel de Sucy. "Poor old
d'Albon; if you had spent six months at the other end of Siberia as I
did . . ."
He broke off, and his eyes sought the sky, as if the story of his troubles
was a secret between himself and God.
"Come, march!" he added. "If you once sit down, it is all over with
you."

"I can't help it, Philip! It is such an old habit in a magistrate! I am dead
beat, upon my honor. If I had only bagged one hare though!"
Two men more different are seldom seen together. The civilian, a man
of forty-two, seemed scarcely more than thirty; while the soldier, at
thirty years of age, looked to be forty at the least. Both wore the red
rosette that proclaimed them to be officers of the Legion of Honor. A
few locks of hair, mingled white and black, like a magpie's wing, had
strayed from beneath the Colonel's cap; while thick, fair curls clustered
about the magistrate's temples. The Colonel was tall, spare, dried up,
but muscular; the lines in his pale face told a tale of vehement passions
or of terrible sorrows; but his comrade's jolly countenance beamed with
health, and would have done credit to an Epicurean. Both men were
deeply sunburnt. Their high gaiters of brown leather carried souvenirs
of every ditch and swamp that they crossed that day.
"Come, come," cried M. de Sucy, "forward! One short hour's march,
and we shall be at Cassan with a good dinner before us."
"You never were in love, that is positive," returned the Councillor, with
a comically piteous expression. "You are as inexorable as Article 304
of the Penal Code!"
Philip de Sucy shuddered violently. Deep lines appeared in his broad
forehead, his face was overcast like the sky above them; but though his
features seemed to contract with the pain of an intolerably bitter
memory, no tears came to his eyes. Like all men of strong character, he
possessed the power of forcing his emotions down into some inner
depth, and, perhaps, like many reserved natures, he shrank from laying
bare a wound too deep for any words of human speech, and winced at
the thought of ridicule from those who do not care to understand. M.
d'Albon was one of those who are keenly sensitive by nature to the
distress of others, who feel at once the pain they have unwillingly given
by some blunder. He respected his friend's mood, rose to his feet,
forgot his weariness, and followed in silence, thoroughly annoyed with
himself for having touched