We marched rapidly in column of fours up towards the bugles which called and guided us with their heroic flourish. I suddenly wished I could shed my egoism and vibrate in unison with the two thousand men, who, in this hour, were being consecrated my brothers in arms. I flogged my imagination. The Colours. The word echoed within me, awakening a procession of sacred memories and emotions. I could see myself as a child at the window with my mother leaning over me, clapping my hands to salute the standard of the "8th Cuirassiers" in front of which rode my father, very upright on his big black horse. At that time I used to revel in the many tales of heroes who let themselves be killed rather than abandon the staff, or expended a prodigious amount of cunning in order to save the remnants of it.
Were not these Colours the emblem of the country we had risen to defend, the symbol of everything that could raise our soldiers' hearts? My bosom swelled at these thoughts. We were drawing nearer to it; I fixed ardent eyes on it....
It was certainly beautiful, half unfurled in the breeze, with its rich fresh tints and fringe of gold. A sub-lieutenant, looking very pale and proud, was holding it firmly against his hip.
The din of the bugles increased, filling our hearts.... We passed by....
And yet no! No! My ... irreverence rebelled. To become excited over this tinsel, these few yards of painted stuff! Had I hoped for this thing? I had not yet got so far!
Our last evening—strict confinement to barracks.
I had retired to my hay-loft. I leant my elbows on the window-sill overlooking the garden.
I was surprised to hear the murmur of voices below me. I leant out and saw a couple there.
When I recognised little Frémont and his wife, sitting side by side on a stone bench, my first feeling was one of vague impatience. The separation of husband and wife! A touching subject for the pen!