“So,” rejoined the officer, angrily, “this fellow has been writing letters, it would seem, reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your epistolary tastes are like to cost you dearly, my lad; it had been better for you if writing had been omitted in your education. Reconduct the others, sergeant, they are respited; this fellow alone is to undergo his sentence.”
The other two prisoners gave a short and simultaneous cry of joy as they fell back, and I stood alone in front of the escort.
“Parbleu! he has forgotten the signature,” said the adjutant, casting his eye over the paper: “he was chattering and laughing all [pg 635] the time, with the pen in his hand, and I suppose fancied that he had signed it.”
“Nathalie was there, perhaps,” said the aid-de-camp, significantly.
“She was, and I never saw her looking better. It's something like eight years since I saw her last; and I vow she seems not only handsomer, but fresher and more youthful to-day than then.”
“Where is she going; have you heard?”
“Who can tell? Her passport is like a firman; she may travel where she pleases. The rumor of the day says Italy.”
“I thought she looked provoked at Moreau's absence; it seemed like want of attention on his part, a lack of courtesy she's not used to.”
“Very true; and her reception of Berthier was any thing but gracious, although he certainly displayed all his civilities in her behalf.”
“Strange days we live in!” sighed the other, “when a man's promotion hangs upon the favorable word of a—”