And the old stricken hero, his torso still erect, was fixed there on his straw-seated arm-chair, with lifeless legs buried beneath a black wrapper.

Alone did his arms and hands live, and his face beam with strength and intelligence.
Orlando turned towards his servant, and gently said to him: "You can go away, Batista.

Come back in a couple of hours." Then, looking Pierre full in the face, he exclaimed in a voice which was still sonorous despite his seventy years: "So it's you at last, my dear Monsieur Froment, and we shall be able to chat at our ease.

There, take that chair, and sit down in front of me." He had noticed the glance of surprise which the young priest had cast upon the bareness of the room, and he gaily added: "You will excuse me for receiving you in my cell.

Yes, I live here like a monk, like an old invalided soldier, henceforth withdrawn from active life.