He brought his mother a bit of pasteboard of the circumference of a hat, in which he had put ten bullets out of twelve.

The two men had remained behind in the park conversing.
Madame de Montrevel listened to Edouard's slightly boastful account of his prowess.

Then she looked at him with that deep and holy sorrow of mothers to whom fame is no compensation for the blood it sheds.

Oh! ungrateful indeed is the child who has seen that look bent upon him and does not eternally remember it.

Then, after a few seconds of this painful contemplation, she pressed her second son to her breast, and murmured sobbing: "You, too! you, too, will desert your mother some day." "Yes, mother," replied the boy, "to become a general like my father, or an aide-de-camp like Roland." "And to be killed as your father was, as your brother perhaps will be." For the strange transformation in Roland's character had not escaped Madame de Montrevel.