"I have seen you some fifteen miles or so on your way," said my companion, gradually reining in his horse, "and further would I go, monsieur, but for those plans of Dillenburg which I must lay before the maréchal, and which our friend Boisguiller must convey to head-quarters. Farewell: I have enjoyed much the few hours we have had of your society; but the best we can wish each other, if this war lasts, is that we may seldom or never meet again, as we shall only do so when bayonets are fixed and bullets are flying."
Monjoy shook my hand, and wheeling round his horse, rode off. I remained for some minutes watching his retiring figure, the shadow of which was thrown across the snow by the rising sun, in the light of which his silver epaulettes flashed and glittered, and in the clear frosty air the echoes of his horse's hoofs long came distinctly ringing to the car.
I felt depressed and lonely now, for the suavity of manner and gentleness of expression possessed by this young officer made him a singularly winning and pleasing companion.
How much more would I have been interested in him then, could I have foreseen his terrible future!
Turning, I rode slowly along the path indicated. It was distinctly visible even amid the snow, as day had dawned and the sun was up; and while I traversed it at an easy pace (my horse being indifferently frosted in the shoes, and halting at every step), with the reader's permission I will give him—may I add, her?—the sad sequel to the story of Monjoy, as I afterwards read it in the Mercure Français, and the Gazette de Bruxelles, in our camp at Warburg in Prussian Westphalia.
Monjoy returned to Paris with Maréchal de Contades, the Marquis de Voyer, the Comte de Luc, and other officers who declined for various admitted reasons to serve under the Duc de Broglie, and he lived there a somewhat secluded life, exerting himself sedulously in the study of his profession. But he could not fail to hear from time to time of her he had lost, and how the neglect, and what was worse, the querulous tyranny, even the blows, of M. d'Escombas she endured with meek and silent patience—a patience that galled Monjoy; for as year succeeded year she had become the mere nurse of a petulant and selfish old man.
"Many a good woman's life is no more cheerful," says a certain writer; "a spring of beauty and sunshine; a bitter disappointment, followed by pangs and frantic tears, and then a long, long and monotonous story of submission."
As yet such had been the tenor of the life of Isabelle, but never did she and Gervais meet, save once in the boxes of the Opera House of the Palais Royal—the same theatre which had been built of old by Cardinal Richelieu, and was burned down four years after Minden.
They were seated very near each other. She seemed wondrously pale and beautiful; she was clad in light blue silk, her delicate neck, her white taper arms, and her golden hair all glittering with diamonds—the badges of her wedded slavery.
Both were deeply agitated, but neither spoke, till Isabelle, unable to restrain her emotion, whispered to Monjoy behind her fan—