I WAS sitting one evening alone in my quarters, an open volume before me, in which I persuaded myself I was reading, while my thoughts were far otherwise engaged, when my comrade Tascher suddenly entered the room, and throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed, in a tone of passionate impatience,—

“Pardieu! it is a fine thing to be nephew to the first man in France!”

“What has happened?” said I, when I perceived that he stopped short without explaining further.

“What has happened!—enough to drive one mad. Just hear this. You know how fond I am of Paris, and how naturally I must wish to be near the Tuileries, where I have the entrÉe to my aunt's soirees. Well, there was a vacancy occurred yesterday in the huitieme hussars,—a corps always stationed here or at Versailles,—and as I am longing to have a cavalry grade, I waited on Madame Bonaparte to solicit her interest in my favor. She promised, of course. The General was to breakfast with her, and it was all settled: she was to ask him for the promotion, and I had not a doubt of success; in fact, if I must confess, I told two or three of my friends, and actually received their congratulations.

“It so fell out, however, that he did not come to breakfast, nor dinner either,—there's no knowing that man. But what think you? He walked in this evening, just as we were preparing to act a proverb. Such a scene as it was, to be sure. No one expected him. Most of us were dressed up in costumes of one kind or other; and I, ma foi!—ridiculous enough, I suppose,—I was costumed like a galley slave. He stood for a second or two at the door with his arms folded, and his stern eyes wandering over the whole room. There was not one amongst us would not have wished himself many a mile away; even my aunt herself seemed quite confused, and blushed, and grew pale, and blushed again.

“'Ha!' cried he at last, in his dry, short voice. 'Pardon, ladies and gentlemen, I have made a mistake; I believed I was in the Palace of the Tuileries, and I find this is the Porte St. Martin.'

“'Fi donc, Bonaparte!' cried my aunt, blushing, while with one of her sweetest-smiles she endeavored to bring him back to good-humor. 'See how you have frightened Madame de Narbonne—she 'll never be able to play the miller's wife; and Marie here,—her tears will wash away all her rouge.'

“'And this amiable gentleman, what is to become of him?' said he, interrupting her, while he laid his hand on my shoulder, and I stood trembling like a culprit beside him.

“'Ah, there! that 's Tascher,' said she, laughingly; and as if happy to escape from her greater embarrassment by any means, she continued: 'Your question comes, indeed, quite a propos. I have a request to make in his favor: there's a vacancy in the huitieme, I think it is,—eh, Edward?' (I nodded slightly, for if my life depended on it, I could not have uttered a word.) 'Now, I am sure he 's been sous-lieutenant long enough; and in the infantry too.'

“'Can you ride well, sir?' said he, turning to me with a half frown on his pale face.

“'Yes, General,' replied I, with my heart almost choking me as I spoke.

“'Well, sir, you shall be employed, and in a service worthy your present tastes, if I may judge from your costume. A detachment of prisoners is to march to-morrow from this for the Bagne de Brest; hold yourself in readiness to accompany the military escort. Go, sir, and report yourself to your colonel.' He waved his hand when he had finished; and how I left the room, reached the street, and found myself here, hang me if I can tell you.”

“And is there no help for this? Must you really go?” said I, compassionating the dejected and sorrow-struck expression of the youth.

“Must I go! Ma foi you know little of this dear uncle of mine, if you ask such a question. When once his mind 's made up, anything like an attempt to argue only confirms his resolve. The best thing now is, to obey and say nothing; for if my aunt remonstrates, I may spend my life in garrison there over the galley slaves.”

A knocking at the outer door interrupted our conversation at this moment, and a corporal of the staff entered, with a despatch-bag at his waist.

“Sous-Lieutenant Tascher,” said he, touching his cap, and presenting a large official-looking letter to my companion, who threw it from him on the table, and turned away to hide his confusion. “Monsieur Burke,” said the corporal, withdrawing another ominous document from his leathern pouch.

“Diantre!” cried Tascher, turning quickly about, “have I got you into a scrape as well as myself? I remember now the General asked me who was my 'comrade.'”

I took the paper with a trembling hand, and tore it open. The first line was all I could read; it was a War Office official, appointing me to the vacant commission in the huitieme hussars.

Tascher's hand shook as he leaned on my shoulder, and I could feel a convulsive twitching of his fingers as his agitation increased; but in a second or two he recovered his self-command, and taking my hand within both of his, he said, while the large tears were starting from his eyes,—

“I'm glad it's you, Burke!” and then turned away, unable to say more.

It was some time before I could bring myself to credit my good fortune. Had I been free to choose, I could have desired nothing better nor more to my liking; and when I succeeded at length, then came my embarrassment at my poor friend's disappointment, which must have been still more poignant as contrasted with my success. Tascher, however, had all the Creole warmth of temperament. The first burst over, he really enjoyed the thought of my promotion; and we sat up the entire night talking over plans for the future, and making a hundred resolves for contingencies, some of which never arose, and many, when they came, suggested remedies of their own.

At daybreak my comrade's horses came to the door, and a mounted orderly attended to accompany him to the prison where the convoy were assembled. We shook hands again and again. He was leaving what had been his home for years,—Paris, the gay and brilliant city in whose pleasures he had mixed, and whose fascinations he had tasted. I was parting from one with whom I had lived in a friendship as close as can subsist between two natures essentially different. We both were sad.

“Adieu, Burke!” said he, as he waved his hand for the last time. “I hope you'll command the huitieme when next we meet.”

I hurried into the quarters, which already seemed lonely and deserted, so soon does desolation throw its darkening shadow before it. The sword that had hung above the chimney crosswise on my own was gone; the shako, too, and the pistols were missing; the vacant chair stood opposite to mine; and the isolation I felt became so painful that I wandered out into the open air, glad to escape the sight of objects every one of which only suggested how utterly alone I stood in the world when the departure of one friend had left me companionless.

No one save he who has experienced it can form any just idea of the intense hold a career of any kind will take of the mind of him who, without the ties of country, of kindred, and of friends, devotes all his energies in one direction. The affections that might, under other influences, have grown up,—the hopes that might have flourished in the happy sphere of a home,—become the springs of a more daring ambition. In proportion as he deserts other roads in life, the path he has struck out for himself seems wider and grander, and his far-seeing eye enables him to look into the long distance with a prophetic vision, where are rewards for his hard won victories, the recompense of long years of toil. The pursuit, become a passion, gradually draws all into its vortex; and that success which at first he believed only attainable by some one mighty effort, seems at last to demand every energy of his life and every moment of his existence: and as the miser would deem his ruin near should the most trifling opportunity of gain escape him, so does the ambitious man feel that every incident in life must be made tributary to the success which is his mammon. It was thus I thought of the profession of arms: my whole soul was in it; no other wish, no other hope, divided my heart; that passion reigned there alone. How often do we find it in life that the means become the end,—that the effort we employ to reach an object takes hold upon our fancy, gains hourly upon our affections, and at length usurps the place of what before had been our idol? As a boy, liberty, the bold assertion of my country's rights, stirred my heart, and made me wish to be a soldier. As years rolled on, the warlike passion sank deeper and deeper in my nature,—the thirst for glory grew upon me; and forgetting all save that, I longed for the time when on the battle-field I should win my name to fame and honor.

In this wise were my musings, as I loitered homeward and entered my quarters. A sealed packet, addressed Sous-Lieutenant Burke,—how that humble title made my heart beat!—lay on my table. Supposing it referred to my new appointment, I sat down to con it over at my leisure; but no sooner had I torn open the envelope than a card fell to the ground. I took it up hastily, and read,—“D'aprÈs l'ordre de Madame Bonaparte, j'ai l'honneur de vous inviter À une soirÉe—”

“What!” cried I, aloud; “me!—invite me to the Palace! There must be some mistake here.” And I turned again to the envelope, where my name was legibly written, with my grade and the number of my new corps. There could be no doubt of it; and yet was it still inexplicable. I that was so perfectly alone,—a stranger, without a friend, save among the humble ranks of the school,—how came such a distinction as this to be conferred on me? I thought of Tascher; but then we had lived months together, and such a thing had never been even alluded to. The more I reflected on it, the greater became my difficulty; and in a maze of confusion and embarrassment, I passed the day in preparation for the evening,—for, as was customary at the period, the invitations for small parties were issued on the very mornings' themselves.

My first care was to look after the uniform of my new corps, in which I knew I must appear. My last remaining bank note—the sole survivor of my little stock of wealth—was before me; and I sat calculating with myself the costly outlay of a hussar dress, the full uniform of which had not till now entered into my computation. Never was my ingenuity more sorely tried than in the endeavor to bring the outlay within the narrow limits of my little purse; and when at length I would think that all had been remembered, some small but costly item would rise up against me, and disconcert all my calculations.

At noon I set out to wait on my new colonel, whose quarters were in the Place Vendome. The visit was a short and not over pleasant one; a crowd of officers filled the rooms, among whom I edged my way with difficulty towards the place where Colonel Marbois was standing. He was a short, thick-set, vulgar-looking man, of about fifty; his mustache and whiskers meeting above the lip, and his bushy, black beard below, gave him the air of a pioneer, which his harsh Breton accent did not derogate from.

“Ah, c'est vous!” said he, as my name was announced. “You 'll have to learn in future, sir, that officers of your rank are not received at the levies of their colonel. You hear me: report yourself to the chef d'escadron, however, who will give you your orders. And mark me, sir, let this be the last day you are seen in that uniform.”

A short and not very gracious nod concluded the audience; and I took my leave not the less abashed that I could mark a kind of half smile on most of the faces about me as I withdrew from the crowd,—scarcely in the street, however, when my heart felt light and my step elastic. I was a sous-lieutenant of hussars; and if I did my duty, what cared I for the smiles and frowns of my colonel? and had not the General Bonaparte himself told me that “no grade was too high for the brave man who did so?”

I can scarcely avoid a smile even yet as I call to mind the awe I felt on entering the splendid shop of Monsieur Crillac,—the fashionable tailor of those days, whose plateglass windows and showy costumes formed the standing point for many a lounger around the corner of the Rue de richelieu and the Boulevard. His saloon, as he somewhat ostentatiously called it, was the rendezvous for the idlers of a fashionable world, who spent their mornings canvassing the last gossip of the city and devising new extravagances in dress. The morning papers, caricatures, prints of fashions, patterns of waistcoats, and new devices for buttons, were scattered over a table, round which, in every attitude of indolence and ease, were stretched some dozen of the exquisites of the period, engaged in that species of half-ennui, half-conversation, that forms a considerable part of the existence of your young men of fashion of every age and every country. Their frock-coats of light cloth, high-collared, and covered with buttons; their bottes À revers reaching only mid-leg, and met there by a tight pantalon collant; their hair studiously brushed back off their foreheads, and worn long, though not in queue behind,—bespoke them as the most accurate types of the mode.

The appearance of a youth in the simple uniform of the Polytechnique, in such a place, seemed to excite universal astonishment. Such a phenomenon apparently had never been witnessed before; and as they turned fully round to stare at me, it was clear they never deemed that any mark of rudeness could be felt by one so humble as I was. Monsieur Crillac himself, who was sipping his glass of eau sucrÉe, with one arm leaning on the chimney-piece, never deigned to pay me other attention than a half-smile, as, with a voice of most patronizing softness, he lisped out,—

“What can we do for you here, Monsieur?”

Apparently the answer to this question was a matter of interest to the party, who suddenly ceased talking to listen.

“I wish to order a uniform,” said I, summoning up all my resolution not to seem abashed. “This is a tailor's, if I don't mistake?”

“Monsieur is quite correct,” replied the imperturbable proprietor, whose self-satisfied smile became still more insulting, “but perhaps not exactly what you seek for. Gentlemen who wear your cloth seldom visit us.”

“No, Crillac,” interrupted one of the bystanders; “I never heard that you advertised yourself as fashioner to the Polytechnique, or tailor in ordinary to the corps of Pompiers.”

“You are insolent, sir!” said I, turning fiercely round upon the speaker. The words were scarce spoken, when the party sprang to their legs,—some endeavoring to restrain the temper of the young man addressed; others, pressing around, called on me to apologize on the spot for what I had said.

“No, no; let us have his name,—his name,” said three or four in a breath. “De Beauvais will take the punishment into his own hands.”

“Be advised, young gentleman; unsay your words, and go your way,” said an elder one of the party; while he added in a whisper, “De Beauvais has no equal in Paris with the small sword.”

“There is my address,” said I, seizing a pen, and writing on a piece of paper before me.

“Ha!” said De Beauvais, as he threw his eye on the writing; “he has got his grade, it seems: all the better that,—I half shrunk from the ridicule of an affair with a cadet. So you are serious about this?”

“Sir!” said I, all my efforts being barely enough to repress my rising passion.

“Well, well! enough about it. To-morrow morning; the Bois de Boulogne; the rapier. You understand me, I suppose?”

I nodded, and was about to leave the place, when I remembered that in my confusion I had neither asked my antagonist's name nor rank.

“And you, sir,” said I, “may I have the honor to learn who you are?”

“Pardieu, my young friend!” cried one of the others; “The information will not strengthen your nerves. But if you will have it, he is the Marquis de Beauvais, and tolerably well known in that little locality where he expects to meet you to-morrow.”

“Till then, sir,” replied I, touching my cap, as I turned into the street; not, however, before a burst of laughter rang through the party at a witticism of which I was the object, and the latter part of which only could I catch.

It was De Beauvais who spoke: “In which case, Crillac, another artist must take his measure.”

The allusion could not be mistaken, and I confess I did not relish it like the others.

I should, I fear, have fallen very low in the estimate of my companions and associates could the real state of my heart at that moment have been laid open to them. It was, I freely own, one of great depression. But an hour ago, and life was opening before me with many a bright and cheerful hope; and now in an instant was my fortune clouded. Let me not be misunderstood: among the rules of the Polytechnique, duelling was strictly forbidden; and although numerous transgressions occurred, so determined was the head of the Government to put down the practice, that the individuals thus erring were either reduced in rank or their promotion stopped for a considerable period, while the personal displeasure of Greneral Bonaparte rarely failed to show itself with reference to them. Now, it was clear to me that some unknown friend, some secret well-wisher, had interested himself in my humble fate,—that I owed my newly acquired rank to his kindness and good offices. What, then, might I not be forfeiting by this unhappy rencontre? Was it not more than likely that such an instance of misconduct, the very day of my promotion, might determine the whole tenor of my future career? What misrepresentation might not gain currency about my conduct? These were sad reflections indeed, and every moment but increased them.

When I reached the college, I called on one of my friends; but not finding him in his quarters, I wrote a few lines, begging he would come over to me the moment he returned. This done, I sat down alone to think over my adventure, and devise if I could some means to prevent its publicity, or if not that, its being garbled and misstated. Hour after hour rolled past—my wandering thoughts took no note of time—and the deep-tolled bell of the Polytechnique struck eight before I was aware the day was nearly over. Nine was the hour mentioned on my card of invitation: it flashed suddenly on me. What was to be done? I had no uniform save that of the ecole. Such a costume in such a place would, I feared, be considered too ridiculous; yet to absent myself altogether was impossible. Never was I in such a dilemma. All my endeavors to rescue myself were fruitless; and at last, worn out with the conflict of my doubts and fears, I stepped into the fiacre and set out for the Palace.