gloomy man; both were satisfied; foras the inexorable was his ideal, he had seen Gauvain terrible as well as superb. Cimourdain thought of all that destruction must do before construction could begin, and surely, he thought, this is not the time for emotion. Gauvain will be "at the top" "—á la hauteur,"—a phrase of that day. Cimourdain imagined Gauvain crushing the shades of night under his foot, having on a breastplate of light, with a meteoric gleam on his brow, spreading the great ideal wings of Justice, Reason, and Progress, and carrying a sword in his hand; an angel, but of destruction.
At the very height of this dream, which was almost an ecstasy, he heard, through the partly opened door, talking in the great hospital ward, next his room; he recognized Gauvain's voice; that voice, which in spite of years of absence was always sounding in his ear, and the voice of the child was recognizable in the voice of the man. He listened. There was a sound of steps. Some soldiers said,—
"Commander, this is the man who shot at you. While nobody was noticing him, he dragged himself to a cellar. We have found him. Here he is."
Then Cimourdain heard this conversation between Gauvain and the man,—
"Are you wounded?"
"I am well enough to be shot."
"Put this man in a bed. Dress his wounds, care for him, heal him."
"I want to die."
"You will live. You wished to kill me in the name of the king; I pardon you in the name of the Republic."
A shadow passed over Cimourdain's face. He woke as it were with a start, and he murmured with a sort of ominous despondency,—
"He is surely merciful."
