THE SOLDIER'S SON.
Many, many years ago, at the close of a sultry summer's day, a man of middle age was slowly toiling up a hill in the environs of the pleasant village of Aumont, a small town in the south of France. The wayfarer was clad in the habiliments of a private of the infantry of the line; that is to say, he wore a long-skirted, blue coat, faced with red, much soiled and stained; kerseymere breeches that were once white, met at the knee by tattered gaiters of black cloth, an old battered chapeau, and a haversack, which he carried slung over his right shoulder, on a sheathed sabre. From time to time, he paused and wiped the heavy drops of perspiration that gathered constantly upon his forehead.
"Courage, François, courage," said the soldier to himself; "a few paces more, and you will reach home. Ah, this is sufficiently fatiguing, but nothing to the sands of Egypt. May Heaven preserve my eyesight long enough to see my home—my wife—my brave boy Victor, once more! Grant me but that, kind Heaven, and I think I will repine at nothing that may happen further."
It will be seen from the above, that François Bertrand belonged to the army which had recently covered itself with glory in the Egyptian campaign, under the command of General Bonaparte, a name already famous in military annals. He had fought like a hero in the battle of the Pyramids, when the squares of the French infantry repulsed the brilliant cavalry of Murad Bey, and destroyed the flower of the Mamelukes by the deadly fire of their musketry. Wounded in that memorable battle, he was afterwards attacked by the ophthalmia of the country; but his eyesight, though impaired, was not yet utterly destroyed. Honorably discharged, he had just arrived at Marseilles, from Egypt, and was now on his way home, eager to be folded in the arms of his beloved wife and his young son. So the soldier toiled bravely up the hill, for he knew that the white walls of his cottage and the foliage of his little vineyard would be visible in the valley commanded by the summit.
At length he reached the brow of the hill, and gazed eagerly in the direction of his humble home; but O, agony, it was gone! In its place, a heap of blackened ruins lay smouldering in the sunlight that seemed to mock its desolation. Fatigue—weakness—were instantly forgotten, and the soldier rushed down the brow of the hill to the scene of the disaster. At the gate of his vineyard, he was met by little Victor, a boy of ten.
"A soldier!" cried the boy, who did not recognize his father. "O sir, you come back from the wars, don't you? Perhaps you can tell me something about my poor papa?"
"Victor, my boy, my dear boy! don't you know me?" cried the poor soldier; and he strained his son convulsively in his arms.
"O, I know you now, my dear, dear papa," said the boy, sobbing. "I knew you by the voice—but how changed you are! Why, your mustaches are turned gray."
"Victor, Victor, where is your mother?" gasped the soldier.