“I see this is serious,” he remarked; “but you leave me, Monsieur, utterly at a loss.” The Maréchal made a restless movement on his sumptuous couch and half sat up, resting on his elbow. The long powdered curls that fell over his black solitaire and embroidered shirt were no more colourless than his face; his lips quivered and his eyes were narrowed as if he restrained pain. “M. de Broglie,” he said strongly, “you had better have been dead than have brought the army into Prague.” The younger General paled now, but raised his eyebrows haughtily; his right hand closed over the smooth red silk tassels of his sword. “This is an old subject, Monsieur,” he answered coldly. “I am ready to answer for my conduct at Versailles--I have told you so before.” “Versailles!” exclaimed the Maréchal grimly. “There are not many of us, Monsieur, who will see Versailles again.” M. de Broglie rose to his feet; the powerful firelight lent a false colour to his face. “What is your news from France, Maréchal?” he asked softly. With a fierce gesture M. de Belleisle cast down the letter he held. “This--we are to vacate Prague and join Maillelois at Eger--on the instant.” “It is not possible,” stammered M. de Broglie. The Maréchal interrupted him passionately-- “My orders are there. The old man is in his dotage. Thirty leagues to Eger along unbroken ice--a retreat in this weather, when the men are dying under my eyes even in shelter.” The Duc de Broglie was startled and shocked beyond concealment. “It cannot be done!” he ejaculated. “There are my orders,” answered the Maréchal bitterly. “How many men does the Cardinal think I shall get to Eger? My God, it will be a disaster to make Europe stare--and the end of the war.” As he thought of the proud ambitions with which he had first meddled in the affairs of Austria, the difficulty he had had in wringing authority from Versailles for this alliance with Frederick of Prussia, the trouble to persuade that crafty King himself to accept the dangerous protection of France--as he thought of the splendid army he had poured into Bohemia, and saw now the end of that army and of the war in a catastrophe that would make France groan--and through no fault of his own, but because of the ignorant blunder of a foolish old priest in Paris--two haughty tears forced from his eyes and rolled down his thin cheeks. M. de Broglie was breathless as a tired runner; he put out his hand mechanically and grasped an enamelled snuff-box that lay among the frivolous trifles on the gilt desk. “M. de Fleury does not know,” he whispered, “either a Bohemian winter or the route from here to Eger.” The Maréchal fixed him with fierce wet eyes. “You are answerable for this, M. le Duc--you and you alone--and I must pay for your careless folly.” “Monsieur,” answered the other General, “I made Prague a shelter. I did not imagine that any sane man would order a retreat from it--in midwinter.”