Poor Adèle, knowing well his secret heart, and fearing that he would only fret and chafe at home,—perhaps, too, being herself a little tainted with his love for glory,—wept, but said, “Go, then, dear Gustave; never shall a French girl counsel her lover to desert his country.”
So, while many a tear and secret prayer are poured out for his welfare, Gustave goes.
The land rings with martial preparations; on all sides is the excitement of the coming war: the eagles and the banners are raised high; and all the air is filled with the grand anthem, “Partant pour la Syrie.”
Part II.
Gustave wrote often: first he was learning his drill, then he had finished his initiation and was in favour with his superiors, often being able to assist with his clear head and ready pen.
Soon after these, a letter came to say the regiment was to hasten to Marseilles, there to embark for Eastern service.
A long silence, and a battle had been fought upon the plains of Alma: his name was not in the lists of killed and wounded,—those fearful lists that break the hearts of many; it is not those fighting, but those left behind we ought to pity.
Then came a day of joy: Gustave had performed one of those daring feats of which the Russian war gave so many instances,—he had been promoted; and Adèle’s eyes sparkled, and her bosom heaved, as friends came flocking in offering their congratulations.
The long winter was rolling on; still the enemy, with desperate courage, defended the beleaguered city; and men died fast of fatigue, and cold, and want, both within and without the walls.
Gustave was strong and healthy, never sick or suffering; but, alas! a day came when, after a night sortie gallantly repelled by the French, who followed the enemy nearly into the very town, it was found that he had not returned; and his men reported that he had fallen mortally wounded close to the city walls: they had endeavoured to bring him off, but the task was too difficult, and he was left to breathe his last where he had fallen.