With a half-broken heart and faltering step I regained my quarters, where again my grief burst forth with more violence than at first. Every object about recalled to me the career I was leaving forever; and wherever my eye rested, some emblem lay to open fresh stores of sorrow. The pistols I carried at Elchingen, a gift from General d'Auvergne; an Austrian sabre I had taken from its owner, still ornamented with a little knot of ribbon Minette had fastened to the hilt,—hung above the chimney; and I could scarce look on them without tears. On the table still lay open the ordre du jour which named me to the Legion of Honor; and now the humblest soldier that carried his musket in the ranks was my superior. Not all the principle on which I founded my resolve was proof against this first outburst of my sorrow.
The chivalrous ardor of a soldier's life had long supplied to me the place of those appliances to happiness which other men possess. Each day I followed it the path grew dearer to me. Every bold and daring feat, every deed of enterprise or danger, seemed to bring me, in thought at least, nearer to him whose greatness was my idolatry. And now, all this was to be as a mere dream,—a thing which had been, and was to be no more.
While I revolved such sad reflections, a single knock came to my door. I opened it, and saw a soldier of my own regiment. His dress was travel-stained and splashed, and he looked like one off a long journey. He knew me at once, and accosted me by name, as he presented a letter from General d'Auvergne.
“You've had a smart ride,” said I, as I surveyed his flushed face and disordered uniform.
“Yes, Captain,—from the Oder. Our division is full twelve leagues from this. I left on yesterday morning; for the general was particular that the charger should not suffer on the way,—as if a beast like that would mind double the distance.”
By this time I had opened the letter, which merely contained the following few lines:—
Encampment on the Oder, Nov. 21, 1806.
My dear Burke,—Every new arrival here has brought me some
fresh intelligence of you, and of your conduct at Jena; nor
can I say with what pride I have heard that the Emperor has
included you among the list of the décorés. This is the
day I often prophesied for you, and the true and only
refutation against the calumnies of the false-hearted and
the envious. I send you a Polish charger for your gala
review. Accept him from me; and believe that you have no
warmer friend, nor more affectionate, than yours,
D'Auvergne, Lieut-General.
Before I had finished reading the letter, my eyes grew so dimmed I could scarcely trace the letters. Each word of kindness, every token of praise, now cut me to the heart. How agonizing are the congratulations of friends on those events in life where our own conscience bears reproach against us! how poignant the self-accusation that is elicited by undeserved eulogy! How would he think of my conduct? By what means should I convince him that no alternative remained to me? I turned away, lest the honest soldier should witness my trouble; and as I approached the window, I beheld in the courtyard beneath the beautiful charger which, with the full trappings of a hussar saddle, stood proudly flapping his deep flanks with his long silken tail. With what a thrill I surveyed him! How my heart leaped, as I fancied myself borne along on the full tide of battle, each plunge he gave responsive to the stroke of my sword-arm! For an instant I forgot all that had happened, and gazed on his magnificent crest and splendid shape with an ecstasy of delight.
“Ay,” said the dragoon, whose eyes were riveted in the same quarter, “there's not a marshal of France so well mounted; and he knows the trumpet-call like the oldest soldier of the troop.”
“You will return to-morrow,” said I, recovering myself suddenly, and endeavoring to appear composed and at ease. “Well, then, to-night I shall give you an answer for the general; be here at eight o'clock.”