Strongly illumined by a last ray of the setting sun, these silent men
composed a picture of aged melancholy fertile in contrasts. The sombre
and solemn chamber, where nothing had been changed in twenty-five
years, made a frame for this poetic canvas, full of extinguished
passions, saddened by death, tinctured by religion.
"The Marechal d'Ancre has been killed on the Pont du Louvre by order
of the king, and--O God!"
"Go on!" cried the duke.
"Monsieur le Duc de Nivron--"
"Well?"
"Is dead!"
The duke dropped his head upon his breast with a great sigh, but was
silent. At those words, at that sigh, the three old men looked at each
other. It seemed to them as though the illustrious and opulent house
of Herouville was disappearing before their eyes like a sinking ship.
"The Master above," said the duke, casting a terrible glance at the
heavens, "is ungrateful to me. He forgets the great deeds I have
performed for his holy cause."
"God has avenged himself!" said the priest, in a solemn voice.
"Put that man in the dungeon!" cried the duke.
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