“Be it so. I have been so often right, I can afford a false prediction without losing all my character as prophet. Adieu!”
No sooner was I alone than I sat down to think over what he had said. The improbability, nay, as it seemed to me, the all but impossibility, of such an event as he foretold, seemed not less now than when first I heard it; but somehow I felt a kind of internal satisfaction, a sense of gratified vanity, to think that to so acute an observer as Duchesne such a circumstance did not appear even unreasonable. How hard it is to call in reason against the assault of flattery! How difficult to resist the force of an illusion by any appeal to our good sense and calmer judgment!
It must not be supposed from this that I seriously contemplated such a possible turn of fortune,—far less wished for it. No; my satisfaction had a different source. It lay in the thought that I, the humble captain of hussars, should ever be thought of as the suitor of the greatest beauty and the richest dowry of the day: here was the mainspring of my flattered pride. As to any other feeling, I had none. I admired Mademoiselle de Lacostellerie greatly; she was, perhaps, the very handsomest girl I ever saw; there was not one in the whole range of Parisian society so much sought after; and there was a degree of distinction in being accounted even among the number of her admirers. Besides this, there lay a lurking desire in my heart that Marie de Meudon (for as such only could I think of her) should hear me thus spoken of. It seemed to me like a weak revenge on her own indifference to me; and I longed to make anything a cause of connecting my fate with the idea of her who yet held my whole heart.
Only men who live much to themselves and their own thoughts know the pleasure of thus linking their fortunes, by some imaginary chain, to that of those they love. They are the straws that drowning men catch at; but still, for the moment, they sustain the sinking courage, and nerve the heart where all is failing. I felt this acutely. I knew well that she was not, nor could be, anything to me; but I knew, also, that to divest my mind of her image was to live in darkness, and that the mere chance of being remembered by her was happiness itself. It was while hearing of her I first imbibed the soldier's ardor from her own brother. She herself had placed before me the glorious triumphs of that career in words that never ceased to ring in my ears. All my hopes of distinction, my aspirations for success, were associated with the half prediction she had uttered; and I burned for an occasion by which I could signalize myself,—that she might read my name, perchance might say, “And he loved me!”
In such a world of dreamy thought I passed day after day. Duchesne was gone, and I had no intimate companion to share my hours with, nor with whom I could expand in social freedom. Meanwhile, the gay life of the capital continued its onward course; fêtes and balls succeeded each other; and each night I found myself a guest at some splendid entertainment, but where I neither knew nor was known to any one.
It was on one morning, after a very magnificent fête at the Arch-Chancellor's, that I remembered, for the first time, I had not seen my poor friend Pioche since his arrival at Paris. A thrill of shame ran through me at the thought of having neglected to ask after my old comrade of the march, and I ordered my horse at once, to set out for the Hôtel-Dieu, which had now been in great part devoted to the wounded soldiers.
The day was a fine one for the season; and as I entered the large courtyard I perceived numbers of the invalids moving about in groups, to enjoy the air and the sun of a budding spring. Poor fellows! they were but the mere remnants of humanity. Several had lost both legs, and few were there without an empty sleeve to their loose blue coats. In a large hall, where three long tables were being laid for dinner, many were seated around the ample fireplaces; and at one of these a larger group than ordinary attracted my attention. They were not chatting and laughing, like the rest, but apparently in deep silence. I approached, curious to know the reason; and then perceived that they were all listening attentively to some one reading aloud. The tones of the voice were familiar to me; I stopped to hear them more plainly.
It was Minette herself—the vivandière—who sat there in the midst; beside her, half reclining in a deep, old-fashioned armchair, was “le gros Pioche,” his huge beard descending midway on his chest, and his great mustache curling below his upper lip. He had greatly rallied since I saw him last, but still showed signs of debility and feebleness by the very attitude in which he lay.
