"Les malheurs de la guerre! Ah, De Mesmai, mon ami, les malheurs de la guerre!" muttered the wounded man, and sunk backward on his miserable bed; then pointing to his head he added, "A mon camarade—blessure—où—où—plaie mortelle!"
"They have brought me here too, Victor, those cursed misfortunes of war; but my case is not so bad as yours. The helmet is a better defence than the grenadier cap against the straight-cutting blades of these fiery Scots. Cheer up, D'Estouville; while there is life, hope remains. You may yet lead the old Guard in the charge! the Eagles of the empire may yet flap their wings over you."
"Never," whispered Macdonald; "his race of existence is over. Why, then, inspire him with false hopes of living longer?'
"He is one of those fellows that are very hard to kill. I know Victor," whispered the other in reply; then continued as before, "The Emperor has marked you for his own,—the whole service say so, D'Estouville, and suppose that your promotion will be as rapid as ever was Soult's, Macdonald's, Bernadotte's, or any other marshal's of the empire. Remember these things, mon ami, and never think of death!"
"Death's cold hand is upon me. Ah! Maurice, how can I expect to conquer?"
"Morbleu! by determining to live, and to earn honour and fame in spite of him. Courage, my friend."
"No, no, De Mesmai!" replied D'Estouville, with that sudden life and energy which often animates the dying when the moment of dissolution draws near, while his pale cheek flushed, and a light sparkled in his sunken eye. "Honour and glory—these are the dreams of every Frenchman, and they once were mine, my constant thoughts, never for a moment absent from my mind. The very visions of my sleep were full of the gloss and glitter of military parade: martial honour was the idol of my heart. As a gallant young conscript when I left my native home at Lillebonne, as the hardened grenadier, as the dashing subaltern of the Guard, as a wretched prisoner pining in Scotland, and again as a free and daring soldier,—these high hopes, this proud ambition, never left me for an instant,—buoying and bearing me up under all the toils of war and misfortune, until I found myself stretched on the pavement of this chapel, a dying captive! Honour has faded away from me, and the proud sentiments which caused my heart to swell, to bound with rapture at the sharp roll of the drum, now animate me no more. Never again will drum or bugle sound for me!"
"You speak very sorrowfully, in truth," replied De Mesmai; "but some droning monk has been putting these notions in your head. Take care you do not exhaust yourself, mon ami."
"Ah, Maurice! a thousand times I wish I had fallen sword in hand at Almarez, rather than lingered here, enduring for these past ten days the extremes of mental and bodily agony. Yet had I only received a moment's warning, I question much if that officer of the Scottish chasseurs could have cut me down so easily."
"No. In truth you were an excellent swordsman, Victor,—sharp of eye, and sure of hand."