“Must I go! Ma foi you know little of this dear uncle of mine, if you ask such a question. When once his mind 's made up, anything like an attempt to argue only confirms his resolve. The best thing now is, to obey and say nothing; for if my aunt remonstrates, I may spend my life in garrison there over the galley slaves.”
A knocking at the outer door interrupted our conversation at this moment, and a corporal of the staff entered, with a despatch-bag at his waist.
“Sous-Lieutenant Tascher,” said he, touching his cap, and presenting a large official-looking letter to my companion, who threw it from him on the table, and turned away to hide his confusion. “Monsieur Burke,” said the corporal, withdrawing another ominous document from his leathern pouch.
“Diantre!” cried Tascher, turning quickly about, “have I got you into a scrape as well as myself? I remember now the General asked me who was my 'comrade.'”
I took the paper with a trembling hand, and tore it open. The first line was all I could read; it was a War Office official, appointing me to the vacant commission in the huitieme hussars.
Tascher's hand shook as he leaned on my shoulder, and I could feel a convulsive twitching of his fingers as his agitation increased; but in a second or two he recovered his self-command, and taking my hand within both of his, he said, while the large tears were starting from his eyes,—
“I'm glad it's you, Burke!” and then turned away, unable to say more.
It was some time before I could bring myself to credit my good fortune. Had I been free to choose, I could have desired nothing better nor more to my liking; and when I succeeded at length, then came my embarrassment at my poor friend's disappointment, which must have been still more poignant as contrasted with my success. Tascher, however, had all the Creole warmth of temperament. The first burst over, he really enjoyed the thought of my promotion; and we sat up the entire night talking over plans for the future, and making a hundred resolves for contingencies, some of which never arose, and many, when they came, suggested remedies of their own.
At daybreak my comrade's horses came to the door, and a mounted orderly attended to accompany him to the prison where the convoy were assembled. We shook hands again and again. He was leaving what had been his home for years,—Paris, the gay and brilliant city in whose pleasures he had mixed, and whose fascinations he had tasted. I was parting from one with whom I had lived in a friendship as close as can subsist between two natures essentially different. We both were sad.
“Adieu, Burke!” said he, as he waved his hand for the last time. “I hope you'll command the huitieme when next we meet.”