Charles' bullet broke a branch of willow, and
ricocheted over the surface of the water; Raphael fired at random, and
shot his antagonist through the heart. He did not heed the young man
as he dropped; he hurriedly sought the Magic Skin to see what another
man's life had cost him. The talisman was no larger than a small
oak-leaf.
"What are you gaping at, you postilions over there? Let us be off,"
said the Marquis.
That same evening he crossed the French border, immediately set out
for Auvergne, and reached the springs of Mont Dore. As he traveled,
there surged up in his heart, all at once, one of those thoughts that
come to us as a ray of sunlight pierces through the thick mists in
some dark valley--a sad enlightenment, a pitiless sagacity that lights
up the accomplished fact for us, that lays our errors bare, and leaves
us without excuse in our own eyes. It suddenly struck him that the
possession of power, no matter how enormous, did not bring with it the
knowledge how to use it. The sceptre is a plaything for a child, an
axe for a Richelieu, and for a Napoleon a lever by which to move the
world. Power leaves us just as it finds us; only great natures grow
greater by its means. Raphael had had everything in his power, and he
had done nothing.
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