Our young General had gathered us together near his tent. He had been giving us, with his habitual clearness, instructions for the battle which was soon to begin, and which might require the greatest effort both on the part of our men and of ourselves. It was planned that we should start out quietly before daylight, noiselessly scale the mountain, and force the enemy, at the point of the bayonet if possible, with powder and shot if necessary, to cede to us the annoying position which they occupied. Everything being arranged, and no one having a desire to sleep, we naturally began to chat. The conversation turned to reminiscences; not to recent memories, but recollections of childhood. This will not astonish those who know what passes in the head of a soldier on the eve of a battle. The words duty, conscience, fear and courage were frequently uttered. Stories and anecdotes had been told illustrating the varied and often contradictory ideas which these words evoked, and we had begun to talk about our personal experiences. The General, who had listened until then, contenting himself by letting drop an occasional opportune word, being urged to tell us something in his turn, began as follows:
“It is not enough, at the critical hour of one’s existence,” he said, “to be firmly resolved to do one’s entire duty, it is necessary above all to know where and what it is. If it is one of those doubtful cases, embarrassing the intelligence of the full-grown man, how much more difficult must it be for the unformed mind of a child. That which agitates the spirit of a little one, at certain trying moments, is a subject worthy the attention of older people, and it is my opinion that one of the surest means of knowing the man is to study him in the child. The child contains all the essential elements of the man. Though he is bounded by an infantile horizon his soul is none the less a human one. Two things, although of very different nature, and although they date back to the earliest years of my existence, have left me the remembrance of greater perplexities than those which have assailed my spirit at any other epoch of my life. Never has my soldier’s conscience been submitted to more cruel tests than those to which I was twice subjected as a little boy.
“Smoke some of my cigars, make yourselves some grog, and I will tell you one of these episodes of my childhood. After which we must try to get some sleep.”
“I was a very little fellow, only six years old; it was not more than two years since I had begun to wear trousers. My father, who was captain of a ship at that time, being almost always on the sea, I had been brought up by two women, my mother and my aunt—Aunt Marie! I loved them equally. I had, in fact, two mothers. Although they were sensible people, they both spoiled me.”
‘One can only spoil that which is bad,’ said Aunt Marie.
‘And Jacques is good,’ added my mother.
“It appears that at five years of age I was angelic. You see I have changed,” said the general, interrupting his tale an instant, and addressing himself to one of us who had smiled a little. “What do you expect, my dear Robert, life does not leave intact all those whom it touches.”
“Say rather, General,” replied the young officer who had been addressed—a good fellow, although a little audacious at times—“if you have changed, we know well that it is almost always to our advantage.”
The General shook his head and continued: “If I had never left my two mothers, it is very probable that I should have been as gentle as a girl. However this may be, and whether I was good or bad, between these two charming women, I was the happiest little being in creation, and curiously enough, I fully realized my happiness. My aunt, who played more of a part than my mother in this story which I am telling you, was a tall and remarkably beautiful person. My mother alone equalled her in beauty, and that for a very simple reason—they were twins, and resembled one another closely. Happily, their costumes differed completely, and prevented me from making a mistake; my mother belonged to the world, and Aunt Marie did not. Aunt Marie was the Superior of the Sisters of Charity of a large military hospital in the town of —— where I was born. We lived in this town during the long absences of my father. Mamma and her sister, whom I often called “Aunt Sister Marie,” divided between them my entire affection. It was indeed a great joy when my mother took me to see Aunt Marie. Although this pleasure was to be found only between the cold walls of a hospital, it was always greatly desired, and awaited with the very greatest impatience on my part.