cup of milk. Now, if you ever have a petition before the
Court, I'll make you lose it, however just your claim."

The poor discouraged huntsman sat down on a stone that supported the
signpost, relieved himself of his gun and his gamebag, and heaved a long
sigh.

"France! such are thy deputies!" exclaimed Colonel de Sucy, laughing.
"Ah! my poor d'Albon, if you had been like me six years in the wilds of
Siberia--"

He said no more, but he raised his eyes to heaven as if that anguish
were between himself and God.

"Come, march on!" he added. "If you sit still you are lost."

"How can I, Philippe? It is an old magisterial habit to sit still. On my
honor! I'm tired out--If I had only killed a hare!"

The two men presented a rather rare contrast: the public functionary
was forty-two years of age and seemed no more than thirty, whereas the
soldier was thirty, and seemed forty at the least. Both wore the red
rosette of the officers of the Legion of honor. A few spare locks of
black hair mixed with white, like the wing of a magpie, escaped from
the colonel's cap, while handsome brown curls adorned the brow of the
statesman. One was tall, gallant, high-strung, and the lines of his
pallid face showed terrible passions or frightful griefs. The other
had a face that was brilliant with health, and jovially worth of an
epicurean. Both were deeply sun-burned, and their high gaiters of tanned
leather showed signs of the bogs and the thickets they had just come
through.

"Come," said Monsieur de Sucy, "let us get on. A short hour's march, and
we shall reach Cassan in time for a good dinner."

"It is easy to see you have never loved," replied the councillor, with a
look that was pitifully comic; "you are as relentless as article 304 of
the penal code."

Philippe de Sucy quivered; his broad brow contracted; his face became
as sombre as the skies above them. Some memory of awful bitterness
distorted for a moment his features, but he said nothing. Like all
strong men, he drove down his emotions to the depths of his heart;
thinking perhaps, as simple characters are apt to think, that there was
something immodest in unveiling griefs when human language cannot
render their depths and may only rouse the mockery of those who do not
comprehend them. Monsieur d'Albon had one of those delicate natures
which divine sorrows, and are instantly sympathetic to the emotion they
have involuntarily aroused. He respected his friend's silence, rose