When men of high courage and proud hearts meet with reverses in life, our anxiety is rather to learn what new channel their thoughts and exertions will take in future, than to hear how they have borne up under misfortune. I knew Duchesne too well to suppose that any turn of fate would find him wholly unprepared; but still, a public reprimand, and from the lips of the Emperor, too, was of a nature to wound him to the quick, and I could not guess, nor picture to myself in what way he would bear it. The loss of grade itself was a thing of consequence, as the service of the Élite was reckoned a certain promotion; not to speak of—what to him was far more important—the banishment from Paris and its salons to some gloomy and distant encampment. In speculations like these I returned to my quarters, where I was surprised to discover that the chevalier had not been since morning. I learned from his servant that he had dismissed him, with his horses, soon after leaving the Tuileries, and had not returned home from that time.

I dined alone that day, and sat moodily by myself, thinking over the events of the morning, and wondering what had become of my friend, and watching every sound that might tell of his coming. It is true there were many things I liked not in Duchesne: his cold, sardonic spirit, his moqueur temperament, chilled and repelled me; but I recognized, even through his own efforts at concealment, a manly tone of independence, a vigorous reliance on self, that raised him in my esteem, and made me regard him with a certain species of admiration. With his unsettled or unstable political opinions, I greatly dreaded the excess to which a spirit of revenge might carry him.

I knew that the Jacobin party, and the Bourbons themselves, lay in wait for every erring member of the Imperial side; and I felt no little anxiety at the temptations they might hold out to him, at a moment when his excitement might have the mastery over his cooler judgment.

Late in the evening a Government messenger arrived with a large letter addressed to him from the Minister of War; and even this caused me fresh uneasiness, since I connected the despatch in my mind with some detail of duty which his absence might leave unperformed.

It was long past midnight, as I sat, vainly endeavoring to occupy myself with a book, which each moment I laid down to listen, when suddenly I heard the roll of a fiacre in the court beneath, the great doors banged and closed, and the next moment the chevalier entered the room.

He was dressed in plain clothes, and looked somewhat paler than usual, but though evidently laboring under excitement, affected his wonted ease and carelessness of manner, as, taking a chair in front of me, he sat down.

“What a day of worry and trouble this has been, my dear friend!” he began. “From the moment I last saw you to the present one, I have not rested, and with four invitations to dinner, I have not dined anywhere.”

He paused as he said thus much, as if expecting me to say something; and I perceived that the embarrassment he felt rather increased than otherwise. I therefore endeavored to mumble out something about his hurried departure and the annoyance of such a sentence, when he stopped me suddenly.

“Oh, as to that, I fancy the matter is arranged already; I should have had a letter from the War Office.”

“Yes, there is one here; it came three hours ago.”

He turned at once to the table, and breaking the seal, perused the packet in silence, then handed it to me, as he said,—

“Bead that; it will save a world of explanation.”

It was dated five o'clock, and merely contained the following few words:—

A small sealed note dropped from the packet, which Duchesne took up, and broke open with eagerness.

“Ha! parbleu!” cried he, with energy; “I thought not. See here, Burke; it is Duroc who writes:—”

“This is all mystery to me, Duchesne; I cannot fathom it in the least.”

“Let me assist you; a few words will do it. I gave in my dÉmission as Captain of the Guard, which, as you see, his Majesty has accepted; we shall leave it to the 'Moniteur' of to-morrow to announce whether graciously or not. I also addressed a formal letter to Duroc, to ask the Emperor's permission to visit England, on private business of my own.” His eyes sparkled with a malignant lustre as he said these last words, and his cheek grew deep scarlet. “This, however, his Majesty has not granted, doubtless from private reasons of his own; and thus we stand. Which of us, think you, has most spoiled the other's rest for this night?”

“But still I do not comprehend. What can take you to England? You have no friends there; you've never been in that country.”

“Do you know the very word is proscribed,—that the island is covered from his eyes in the map he looks upon, that perfide Albion is the demon that haunts his dark hours, and menaces with threatening gesture the downfall of all his present glory? Ah, by Saint Denis, boy! had I been you, it is not such an epaulette as this I had worn.”

“Enough, Duchesne; I will not hear more. Not to you, nor any one, am I answerable for the reasons that have guided my conduct; nor had I listened to so much, save that such excitement as yours may make that pardonable which in calmer moments is not so.”

“You say right, Burke,” said he, quickly, and with more seriousness of manner; “it is seldom I have been betrayed into such a passionate warmth as this. I hope I have not offended you. This change of circumstance will make none in our friendship. I knew it, my dear boy. And now let us turn from such tiresome topics. Where, think you, have I been spending the evening? But how could you ever guess? Well, at the OdÉon, attending Mademoiselle Pierrot, and a very pretty friend of hers,—one of our vivandiÈres, who happens to be in the brigade with mademoiselle's brother, and dined there to-day. She only arrived in Paris this morning; and, by Jove! there are some handsome faces in our gay salons would scarcely stand the rivalry with hers. I must show you the fair Minette.”

“Minette!” stammered I, while a sickly sensation—a fear of some unknown misfortune to the poor girl—almost stopped my utterance. “I know her; she belongs to the Fourth Cuirassiers.”

“Ah, you know her? Who would have suspected my quiet friend of such an acquaintance? And so, you never hinted this to me. Ma foi! I 'd have thought twice about throwing up my commission if I had seen her half an hour earlier. Come, tell me all you know of her. Where does she come from?”

“Of her history I am totally ignorant; I can only tell you that her character is without a stain or reproach, in circumstances where few, if any save herself, ever walked scathless; that on more than one occasion she has displayed heroism worthy of the best among us.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, how disappointed I am! Indeed, I half feared as much: she is a regular vivandiÈre of the mÉlodrame,—virtuous, high-minded, and intrepid. You, of course, believe all this,—don't be angry, Burke,—but I don't; and the reason is I can't,—the gods have left me incredulous from the cradle. I have a rooted obstinacy about me, perfectly irreclaimable. Thus, I fancy Napoleon to be a Corsican; a modern marshal to be a promoted sergeant; a judge of the upper court to be a public prosecutor; and a vivandiÈre of the grande armÉe—But I'll not offend,—don't be afraid, my poor fellow,—even at the risk of the rivalry. Upon my life, I 'm glad to see you have a heart susceptible of any little tenderness. But you cannot blame me if I 'm weary of this eternal travesty of character which goes on amongst us. Why will our Republican and sans culotte friends try courtly airs and graces, while our real aristocracy stoop to the affected coarseness of the canaille? Is it possible that they who wish to found a new order of things do not see that all these pantomime costumes and characters denote nothing but change,—that we are only performing a comedy after all? I scarcely expect it will be a five-act one. And, apropos of comedies,—when shall we pay our respects to Madame de Lacostellerie? It will require all my diplomacy to keep my ground there under my recent misfortune. Nothing short of a tender inquiry from the Duchesse de Montserrat will open the doors for me. Alas, and alas! I suppose I shall have to fall back on the Faubourg.”

“But is the step irrevocable, Duchesne? Can you really bring yourself to forego a career which opened with such promise?”

“And terminated with such disgrace,” added he, smiling placidly.

“Nay, nay; don't affect to take it thus. Your services would have placed you high, and won for you honors and rank.”

“And, ma foi! have they not done so? Am I not a very interesting individual at this moment,—more so than any other of my life? Are not half the powdered heads of the Faubourg plotting over my downfall, and wondering how they are to secure me to the 'true cause'? Are not the hot heads of the Jacobites speculating on my admission, by a unanimous vote, into their order? And has not FouchÉ gone to the special expense of a new police spy, solely destined to dine at the same cafÉ, play at the same salon, and sit in the same box of the Opera with me? Is this nothing? Well, it will be good fun, after all, to set their wise brains on the wrong track; not to speak of the happiness of weeding one's acquaintance, which a little turn of fortune always effects so instantaneously.”

“One would suppose from your manner, Duchesne, that some unlooked-for piece of good luck had befallen you; the event seems to have been the crowning one of your life.”

“Am I not at liberty, boy? have I not thrown the slavery behind me? Is that nothing? You may fancy your collar, because there is some gold upon it; but, trust me, it galls the neck as cursedly as the veriest brass. Come, Burke, I must have a glass of champagne, and you must pledge me in a creaming bumper. If you don't join in the sentiment now, the time will come later on. We may be many a mile apart,—ay, perhaps a whole world will divide us; but you'll remember my toast,—'To him that is free!' I am sick of most things; women, wine, war, play,—the game of life itself, with all its dashing and existing interests,—I have had them to satiety. But liberty has its charm; even to the palsied arm and the withered hand freedom is dear; and why not to him who yet can strike?”

His eyes flashed fire as he spoke, and he drained glass after glass of wine, without seeming aware of what he was doing.

“If you felt thus, Duchesne, why have you remained so long a soldier?”

“I 'll tell you. He who travels unwillingly along some dreary path stops often as he goes, and looks around to see if, in the sky above or the road beneath, some obstacle may not cross his way and bid him turn. The faintest sound of a brewing storm, the darkening shadow of a cloud, a swollen rivulet, is enough, and straightway he yields: so men seem swayed in life by trifles which never moved them, by accidents which came not near their hearts. These, which the world called their disappointments, were often but the pivots of their fortune. I have had enough, nay, more than enough, of all this. You must not ask the hackneyed actor of the melodrama to start at the blue lights, and feel real fear at burning forests and flaming chÂteaux. This mock passion of the Emperor—”

“Come, my friend, that is indeed too much; unquestionably there was no feigning there.”

Duchesne gave a bitter laugh, and laying his hand on my arm, said,—

“My good boy, I know him well. The knowledge has cost me something; but I have it. A soldier's enthusiasm!” said he, in irony,—“bah! Shall I tell you a little incident of my boyhood? I detest story-telling, but this you must hear. Fill my glass! listen, and I promise you not to be lengthy.”

It was the first time in our intimacy in which Duchesne referred distinctly to his past life; and I willingly accepted the offer he made, anticipating that any incident, no matter how trivial, might throw a light on the strange contrarieties of his character.

He sat for several minutes silent, his eyes turned towards the ground. A faint smile, more of sadness than aught else, played about his lips, as he muttered to himself some words I could not catch. Then rallying, with a slight effort, he began thus—But, short as his tale was, we must give him a chapter to himself.