"The little nightingale is singing," said Bertrand; "all is not lost,
either for him or for us."
"What do you call a nightingale?"
"That is the name we have given to monseigneur's eldest son," replied
Bertrand.
"My son!" cried the old man; "have I a son?--a son to bear my name and
to perpetuate it!"
He rose to his feet and began to walk about the room with steps in
turn precipitate and slow. Then he made an imperious gesture, sending
every one away from him except the priest.
The next morning the duke, leaning on the arm of his old retainer
Bertrand, walked along the shore and among the rocks looking for the
son he had so long hated. He saw him from afar in a recess of the
granite rocks, lying carelessly extended in the sun, his head on a
tuft of mossy grass, his feet gracefully drawn up beneath him. So
lying, Etienne was like a swallow at rest. As soon as the tall old man
appeared upon the beach, the sound of his steps mingling faintly with
the voice of the waves, the young man turned his head, gave the cry of
a startled bird, and disappeared as if into the rock itself, like a
mouse darting so quickly into its hole that we doubt if we have even
seen it.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105