“He was in a regiment of the Guard. Alas! she told me which, but I forget it now; but his name, surely I remember his name! Well, well, it is a sad story. Adieu, my dear child! good-by! We have each a weary road before us; but my journey, although the longest, will be soonest accomplished. Do not forget my words to you. Your own country, and your country's cause, above every other; all else is the hireling's part. The sense of duty alone can sustain a man in the trials which fit him for this world, or that better one which is to follow. Adieu!” He threw his arm around me as he said this, and leaned exhausted and faint upon my shoulder.
The few who journey through life with little sympathy or friendship from their fellow-men, may know how it rent my heart to part with one to whom I clung every hour closer; my throat swelled and throbbed, and I could only articulate a faint good-by as we parted. As the door was closing, I heard his voice again.
“Yes, I have it now; I remember it well,—'Le Capitaine Burke.'”
I started in amazement, for during all our intercourse he had never asked nor had I told my name, and I stood unable to speak; when he continued,—“You 'll think of the name,—she said, too, he was on the staff,—'Burke!' Poor girl!”
I did not wait for more, but like one flying from some dreaded enemy I rushed through the garden, and gained the road, my heart torn with many a conflicting thought; the bitterest of all being the memory of Minette, the orphan girl, who alone of all the world cared for me. Oh! if strong, deep-rooted affection, the love of a whole heart, can raise the spirit above the every-day contentions of the world,—can ennoble thought, refine sentiments, and divest life of all its meaner traits, making a path of flowers among the rocks and briers of our worldly pilgrimage; so does the possession of affection for which we cannot give requital throw a gloom over the soul, for which there is no remedy. Better, a thousand times better, had I borne all the solitary condition of my lot, unrelieved by one token of regard, than think of her who had wrecked her fortunes on my own.
With many a sad thought I plodded onward. The miles passed over seemed like the events in some troubled dream; and of my journey I have not a recollection remaining. It was late in the evening when I reached the Barrière de l'Étoile, and entered Paris. The long lines of lamps along the quays, the glittering reflection in the calm river, the subdued but continual hum of a great city, awoke me from my reverie, and I bethought me that my career of life must now begin anew, and all my energies must be called on to fashion out my destiny.
On the morning after my arrival I presented myself, in compliance with the requisite form, before the minister of police. Little information of mine was necessary to explain the circumstances under which I was placed. He was already thoroughly acquainted with the whole, and seemed in nowise disposed to evince any undue lenity towards one who had voluntarily quitted the service of the Emperor.
“Where do you purpose to remain, sir?” said the préfet, as he concluded a lengthened and searching scrutiny of my appearance.
“In Paris,” I replied, briefly.
“In Paris, I suppose,” said he, with a slight derisive curl of the lip,—“of that I should think there can be little doubt; but I wished to ascertain more accurately your address,—in what part of the city.”