"March on, you poltroon!"
Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped his head.
All at once he raised it.
A sort of splendid rectification had just been effected in his mind.
There is a widening of the sphere of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see clearly to be near death.
The vision of the action into which he felt that he was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more as lamentable, but as superb.
The war of the street was suddenly transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before the eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interrogation points of revery recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him.
He left none of them unanswered.
Let us see, why should his father be indignant?
Are there not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? What was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat which was about to begin?
It is no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert; it is something quite different.
The question is no longer one of sacred territory,--but of a holy idea. The country wails, that may be, but humanity applauds.
But is it true that the country does wail?