From the table near his couch M. de Belleisle took a map rudely drawn and coloured; he stared at the cross he had himself drawn which denoted Eger, the quarters of M. de Maillelois. “Sane!” he said furiously; “no one will think we are sane. King Frederick will laugh at us and curse too. Oh, if I were in Versailles or the old Cardinal here!” He rang the elegant bell on the table and his valet instantly appeared. “Draw the curtains,” ordered the Maréchal. The man pulled back the soft straw-coloured silk from the blackness of the window. “Open the casement.” The valet obeyed; a blast of frozen air set the lamp flickering. “What manner of night is it?” asked the Maréchal. “Snowing, Monseigneur,” shivered the valet. The heavy flakes whirled in out of the darkness and settled on the polished floor; the Maréchal looked at them in a bitter absorption. “Close the window,” cried M. de Broglie; he was blenching in the deep cold that had in an instant chilled the luxurious little chamber. The valet obeyed and again drew the beautiful curtains over the closed, barred window. The Maréchal cast down the map on top of the letter from France and asked for wine. When it was brought M. de Broglie put it aside in silence, but M. de Belleisle drank heavily, then dropped into his cushions with a sigh of physical pain. When the servant had left, the younger man spoke; he had recovered his composure and something of his self-confident manner. “Do you mean to obey these orders, Monsieur?” “I am a Maréchal de France, Monsieur le Duc, and I obey the orders of France.” Crippled by gout as he was he managed to sit upright, half supporting himself against the carved back of the couch. “M. de Fleury speaks for France--you have been too long in Prague--abandon the town and join Maillelois, so you may make a dash on Vienna,” he gasped. “Vienna!--we shall see hell sooner.” With a quivering hand he pressed his handkerchief to his pallid lips, then wiped the damp of pain from his brow. “But it shall be done--do not think, Monsieur, that I shirk the duty. France has spoken. You will make ready for a council to-night.” M. de Broglie shrugged his shoulders. “You at least, M. le Maréchal, are not fit to leave Prague.” M. de Belleisle narrowed his clever eyes. “While I can draw a breath to form a sentence I do not resign command again,” he said with cold passion. The Duke bowed. “That is as you please, Monsieur.” Their common responsibility, their mutual anxiety for a moment obscured their jealous rivalry. M. de Broglie could not restrain a little exclamation of despair. “We shall not get ten regiments through!” he cried. The Maréchal answered, rigid with secret pain and mental anguish-- “No more words--the fiat is there; we shall leave Prague to-morrow. God have mercy on the poor devils in the ranks--fine men too,” he added in spite of himself, “and, by Heaven, we _might_ have stormed Vienna if I had had a chance!”