“I believe I have already told you, Burke, that my family were most of them Royalists. Such as were engaged in trade followed the fortunes of the day, and cried 'Vive la RÉpublique!' like their neighbors. Some deemed it better to emigrate, and wait in a foreign land for the happy hour of returning to their own,—a circumstance, by the way, which must have tried their patience ere this; and a few, trusting to their obscure position, living in out-of-the-way, remote spots, supposed that in the general uproar they might escape undetected; and, with one or two exceptions, they were right. Among these latter was an unmarried brother of my mother, who having held a military command for a great many years in the Ile de Bourbon, retired to spend the remainder of his days in a small but beautiful chÂteau on the seaside, about three leagues from Marseilles. The old viscount (we continued to call him so among ourselves, though the use of titles was proscribed long before) had met with some disappointment in love in early life, which had prevented his ever marrying, and turned all his affections towards the children of his brothers and sisters, who invariably passed a couple of months of each summer with him, arriving from different parts of France for the purpose.

“And truly it was a strange sight to see the mixture of look, expression, accent, and costume, that came to the rendezvous: the long-featured boy, with blue eyes and pointed chin,—cold, wary, and suspicious, brave but cautious,—that came from Normandy; the high-spirited, reckless youth from Brittany; the dark-eyed girl of Provence; the quick-tempered, warm-hearted Gascon and, stranger than all, from his contrast to the rest the little Parisian, with his airs of the capital and his contempt for his rustic brethren, nothing daunted that in all their boyish exercises he found himself so much their inferior. Our dear old uncle loved nothing so well as to have us around him; and even the little ones, of five and six years old, when not living too far off, were brought to these reunions, which were to us the great events of each year of our lives.

“It was in the June of the year 1794—I shall not easily forget the date—that we were all assembled as usual at 'Le Luc.' Our party was reinforced by some three or four new visitors, among whom was a little girl of about twelve years old,—Annette de Noailles, the prettiest creature I ever beheld. Every land has its own trait of birth distinctly marked. I don't know whether you have observed that the brow and the forehead are more indicative of class in Frenchmen than any other portion of the face: hers was perfect, and though a mere child, conveyed an impression of tempered decision and mildness that was most fascinating; the character of her features was thoughtful, and were it not for a certain vivacity in the eyes, would have been even sad. Forgive me, if I dwell—when I need not—on these traits: she is no more. Her father carried her with him in his exile, and your lowering skies and gloomy air soon laid her low.

“Annette was the child of Royalist parents. Both her father and mother had occupied places in the royal household; and she was accustomed from her earliest infancy to hear the praise of the Bourbons from lips which trembled when they spoke. Poor child! how well do I remember her little prayer for the martyred saint,—for so they styled the murdered king,—which she never missed saying each morning when the mass was over in the chapel of the chÂteau. It is a curious fact that the girls of a family were frequently attached to the fortunes of the Bourbons, while the boys declared for the Revolution; and these differences penetrated into the very core, and sapped the happiness of many whose affection had stood the test of every misfortune save the uprooting torrent of anarchy that poured in with the Revolution. These party differences entered into all the little quarrels of the schoolroom and the nursery; and the taunting epithets of either side were used in angry passion by those who neither guessed nor could understand their meaning. Need it be wondered at, if in after life these opinions took the tone of intense convictions, when even thus in infancy they were nurtured and fostered? Our little circle at Le Luc was, indeed, wonderfully free from such causes of contention; whatever paths in life fate had in store for us afterwards, then, at least, we were of one mind. A few of the boys, it is true, were struck by the successes of those great armies the Revolution poured over Europe; but even they were half ashamed to confess enthusiasm in a cause so constantly allied in their memory with everything mean and low-lived.

“Such, in a few words, was the little party assembled around the supper-table of the chÂteau, on one lovely evening in June. The windows, opening to the ground, let in the perfumed air from many a sweet and flowery shrub without; while already the nightingale had begun her lay in the deep grove hard by. The evening was so calm we could hear the plash of the making tide upon the shore, and the minute peals of the waves smote on the ear with a soft and melancholy cadence that made us silent and thoughtful. As we sat for some minutes thus, we suddenly heard the sound of feet coming up the little gravel walk towards the chÂteau, and on going to the window, perceived three men in uniform leading their horses slowly along. The dusky light prevented our being able to distinguish their rank or condition; but my uncle, whose fears were easily excited by such visitors, at once hastened to the door to receive them.

“His absence was not of many minutes' duration; but even now I can remember the strange sensations of dread that rendered us all speechless as we stood looking towards the door by which he was to enter. He came at last, and was followed by two officers; one, the elder, and the superior evidently, was a thin, slight man, of about thirty, with a pale but stern countenance, in which a certain haughty expression predominated; the other was a fine, soldierlike, frank-looking fellow, who saluted us all as he came in with a smile and a pleasant gesture of his hand.

“'You may leave us, children,' said my uncle, as he proceeded towards the bell.

“'You were at supper, if I mistake not?' said the elder of the two officers, with a degree of courtesy in his tone I scarcely expected.

“'Yes, General. But my little friends—'

“'Will, I hope, share with us,' said the general, interrupting; 'and I, at least, am determined, with your permission, that they shall remain. It is quite enough that we enjoy the hospitality of your chÂteau for the night, without interfering with the happiness of its inmates; and I beg that we may give you as little inconvenience as possible in providing for our accommodation.'

“Though these words were spoken with an easy and a kindly tone, there was a cold, distant manner in the speaker that chilled us all, and while we drew over to the table again, it was in silence and constraint. Indeed, our poor uncle looked the very picture of dismay, endeavoring to do the honors to his guests and seem at ease, while it was clear his fears were ever uppermost in his mind.

“The aide-de-camp—for such the young officer was—looked like one who could have been agreeable and amusing if the restraint of the general's presence was not over him. As it was, he spoke in a low, subdued voice, and seemed in great awe of his superior.

“Unlike our usual ones, the meal was eaten in mournful stillness, the very youngest amongst us feeling the presence of the stranger as a thing of gloom and sadness.

“Supper over, my uncle, perhaps hoping to relieve the embarrassment he labored under, asked permission of the general for us to remain, saying,—

“'My little people, sir, are great novelists, and they usually amuse me of an evening by their stories. Will this be too great an endurance for you?'

“'By no means,' said the general, gayly; 'there's nothing I like better, and I hope they will admit me as one of the party. I have something of a gift that way myself.'

“The circle was soon formed, the general and his aide-de-camp making part of it; but though they both exerted themselves to the utmost to win our confidence, I know not why or wherefore, we could not shake off the gloom we had felt at first, but sat awkward and ill at ease, unable to utter a word, and even ashamed to look at each other.

“'Come,' said the general, 'I see how it is. I have broken in upon a very happy party. I must make the only amende in my power,—I shall be the story-teller for this evening.'

“As he said this, he looked around the little circle, and by some seeming magic of his own, in an instant he had won us every one. We drew our chairs close towards him, and listened eagerly for his tale. Few people, save such as live much among children, or take the trouble to study their tone of feeling and thinking, are aware how far reality surpasses in interest the force of mere fiction. The fact is with them far more than all the art of the narrative; and if you cannot say 'this was true,' more than half of the pleasure your story confers is lost forever. Whether the general knew this, or that his memory supplied him more easily than his imagination, I cannot say; but his tale was a little incident of the siege of Toulon, where a drummer boy was killed,—having returned to the breach, after the attack was repulsed, to seek for a little cockade of ribbon his mother had fastened on his cap that morning. Simple as was the story, he told it with a subdued and tender pathos that made our hearts thrill and filled every eye around him.

“'It was a poor thing, it's true,' said he, 'that knot of ribbon, but it was glory to him to rescue it from the enemy. His heart was on the time when he should show it, blood-stained and torn, and say, “I took it from the ground amid the grapeshot and the musketry. I was the only living thing there that moment; and see, I bore it away triumphantly.”' As the general spoke, he unbuttoned the breast of his uniform, and took forth a small piece of crumpled ribbon, fastened in the shape of a cockade. 'Here it is,' said he, holding it up before on? eyes; 'it was for this he died.' We could scarce see it through our tears. Poor Annette held her hands upon her face, and sobbed violently. 'Keep it, my sweet child,' said the general, as he attached the cockade to her shoulder;' it is a glorious emblem, and well worthy to be worn by one so pure and so fair as you are.'

“Annette looked up, and as she did, her eyes fell upon the tricolor that hung from her shoulder,—the hated, the despised tricolor, the badge of that party whose cruelty she had thought of by day and dreamed of by night. She turned deadly pale, and sat, with lips compressed and clenched hands, unable to speak or stir.

“'What is it? Are you ill, child?' said the general, suddenly.

“'Annette, love! Annette, dearest!' said my uncle, trembling with anxiety, 'speak; what is the matter?'

“'It is that!' cried I, fiercely, pointing to the knot, on which her eyes were bent with a shrinking horror I well knew the meaning of,—' it is that!'

“The general bent on me a look of passionate meaning, as with a hissing tone he said, 'Do you mean this?'

“'Yes,' said I, tearing it away, and trampling it beneath my feet,—'yes! it is not a Noailles can wear the badge of infamy and crime; the blood-stained tricolor can find slight favor here.'

“'Hush, boy! hush, for Heaven's sake!' cried my uncle, trembling with fear.

“The caution came too late. The general, taking a note-book from his pocket, opened it leisurely, and then turning towards the viscount, said, 'This youth's name is—'

“'Duchesne; Henri Duchesne.'

“'And his age?'

“'Fourteen in March,' replied my uncle, as his eyes filled up; while he added, in a half whisper, 'if you mean the conscription, General, he has already supplied a substitute.'

“'No matter, sir, if he had sent twenty; such defect of education as his needs correction. He shall join the levies at Toulon in three days; in three days, mark me! Depend upon it, sir,' said he, turning to me, 'you shall learn a lesson beneath that tricolor you'll be somewhat long in forgetting. Dumolle, look to this.' With this direction to his aide-de-camp he arose, and before my poor unhappy uncle could recover his self-possession to reply, had left the room.

“'He will not do this, sir; surely, he will not,' said the viscount to the young officer.

“'General Bonaparte does not relent, sir; and if he did, he 'd never show it,' was the cold reply.

“That day week I carried a musket on the ramparts of Toulon. Here began a career I have followed ever since; with how much of enthusiasm I leave you to judge for yourself.”

As Duchesne concluded this little story he arose, and paced the room backwards and forwards with rapid steps, while his compressed lips and knitted brow showed he was lost in gloomy recollections of the past.

“He was right, after all, Burke,” said he, at length. “Personal honor will make the soldier; conviction may make the patriot. I fought as stoutly for this same cause as though I did not loathe it: how many others may be in the same position? You yourself, perhaps.”

“No, no; not I.”

“Well, be it so,” rejoined he, carelessly. “Goodnight” And with that he strolled negligently from the room, and I heard him humming a tune as he mounted the stairs towards his bedroom.