From the French of JosÉ de Campos. An Episode of the Crimean War. Approved and Authorized by General Saussier, Military Commander of Paris.

Nicolas Gauthier, Sergeant-Major in the Foreign Legion, was about twenty-six years of age. He was strikingly handsome, with black hair and moustache and a pale complexion. His dark eyes were perhaps somewhat dreamy and intensely sad, but they had a certain expression of gentleness and candour which won all hearts.

He was above the medium height, upright and broad-shouldered, and was altogether more fitted for a cuirassier than for a foot-soldier. As, however, he had entered the army from choice, it was for him to select the arms he preferred.

He had undoubtedly military tastes, but he had evidently some family trouble or some love affair which had made him anxious to leave Paris and to go to Africa with the Foreign Legion (which, as everyone knows, is always the first regiment to be called out in case of war).

He had been in the garrison at Constantine, and while there had been a great favourite with all the ladies, and the men had envied him.

It could scarcely be wondered at, for he was so handsome, and then, too, he had such a martial bearing and such pleasant, attractive manners.

All the sensation he caused was lost upon him, for he did not even seem to notice it himself.

He was a good soldier: subordinate to his superiors, and always indulgent to the men under his command, and, consequently, a great favourite in the Legion.

When Napoleon III. was reviewing the troops, he noticed Gauthier, who was at that time only a sub-officer. He made inquiries about him, and a fortnight later Gauthier was appointed sergeant-major.

It was evident that some great sorrow was weighing on him, for when he was free from his military duties, instead of going out with his comrades to any places of amusement, he would go off by himself for long, solitary walks.

Several times, on seeing him strolling along far from the walls of the city, the other officers had warned him of the risk he ran of being surprised by one of those bands of Arabs who wander about outside the Algerian cities, and who take their revenge on any European who falls into their hands for the yoke that has been put on to them.

Sergeant Gauthier took very little notice of these warnings. He loved solitude and was perfectly fearless. No one knew why he was so sad. Certainly he had lately lost his mother, and still wore a badge of crape on his arm. Of course, this had increased his melancholy, but it was not the original cause of it.

The war with Russia had just been declared. Gauthier, like a great many other officers and sub-officers, was tired of the monotony of garrison life, and volunteered to join the regiments which were to be sent to the Crimea. The Minister of War dispatched the Foreign Legion, to the great joy of Gauthier. His brother officers noticed that he was almost gay, not at all like his former self.

He soon distinguished himself; was always foremost in the fight. His courage and sang-froid won the admiration of all. He was wounded, but he cared little for that; and shortly after he was promoted to the rank of sub-lieutenant.

Gauthier was very intimate with Lieutenant Saussier, another hero who had gone through the "baptism of fire" in Africa, and whose great valour and integrity have won for him the high office he now holds.

These two soldiers were of the same metal: they were able to understand and appreciate each other, and were almost inseparable.

One day during the siege of Sebastopol, Lieutenant Saussier said to his friend:—

"Gauthier, may I ask you a question?"

"Two questions, if you like."

"You won't think it mere curiosity?"

"Are we not friends, Saussier?"

"Yes, but perhaps this is a secret——"

"I have only one secret in the world, and as you do not know that and could not even have an idea of it, there is no fear, so you can speak out."

"Well, will you tell me what is the cause of your sadness, I might almost say bitterness? When we left Africa I thought you had left it behind you; but now in Russia it is worse than ever."

At this unexpected question Gauthier started, then trying to smile he answered:—

"It must be a kind of complaint born in me, and perhaps the change of climate aggravates it."

"Perhaps so," said Lieutenant Saussier, slowly, and watching the expression of his friend's face.

"This cold goes right through me to my very bones," said Gauthier, shivering.

Saussier quite understood that his friend meant, "Let us change the subject," but he continued:—

"May I ask you another question?"

"You seem to have a few to ask to-day," said Gauthier, looking rather annoyed.

"I have often wanted to speak to you, but have never dared before."

"Well, to-day you don't seem afraid of running the risk."

"If it vexes you, don't answer me."

"Oh, I don't mind. I have had one; I may as well have the next."

"Well, will you tell me why, every time there is an engagement, you take such pains to find out the name of the chief who commands the enemy?"

This time Gauthier was visibly annoyed. He answered, after a few minutes' hesitation, "Because some day I intend writing the history of the Crimean War. It is only natural I should want to know the names of the commanders on the other side."

"Oh! of course," said Saussier, feeling rather disconcerted.

For some minutes the two friends continued their walk in silence. There was no sound but the crunching of the snow under their heavy boots, for it had been snowing hard in the district of Simferopol, and a thick white mantle covered the ground.

Lieutenant Saussier looked at Gauthier, and in spite of his friend's attempt to turn away his head, Saussier saw that there were tears in his eyes.

"Forgive me for asking you!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea of causing you pain."

"How do you know you have?" asked Gauthier, passing his arm through that of his friend.

"Don't try and hide it. I can see that, quite unintentional as it was, I have pained you with my questions."

"It is nothing, nothing at all; or rather your questions brought to mind something in my past life. It is only natural that you should have asked me, and as a proof of my friendship I will tell you all."

"No, no! Indeed I do not want you to. We will not talk about it. I am awfully sorry to have spoken of it."

"After all, you are my greatest friend. Why should I not tell you about it? Perhaps, too, it might relieve me to speak of my trouble."

"If it will be any relief to you, tell me; but if not, why, do not let us say any more about it."

"I would rather tell you. Life is very uncertain on the battlefield, and I would rather not die with this secret untold. Perhaps, too, if you knew it you might be able to help me."

"If I could help you in any way, you know you have only to tell me how."

"Well, you shall hear all. You know that, before leaving Algeria, I went to Paris with a three months' leave."

"Which you never stayed out, for you were back again in six weeks."

"What could I do with myself in that Babylon, where everyone was gay while I was so wretched? How could I stand the sardonic laughter and gaiety around me when my heart was aching bitterly? As soon as my poor mother was buried I was only too anxious to get from that city of luxury, where the artificial lights only blinded and dazzled me.

"I wanted to get away from the noise and the vice and the hypocrisy, and go to the desert and be alone with Nature and with reality, where I could breathe pure, wholesome air, and not that atmosphere which bewilders and poisons you. I left what we call the civilized world to go to the savages whom I prefer.

"I gave up society for solitude, peace for war. I despise my life and long for death, but death does not come at my call."

Gauthier stopped for a minute, overcome with emotion.

"You are too sensitive," said Saussier.

"Perhaps so, but I have had something to bear."

"Is it a love affair, Gauthier?"

"No, no! I have never loved anyone, and besides, I am one of those who must not, who dare not love——"

"I do not understand."

"No, I will explain. My mother, who was dying of consumption, brought on by some great grief that she had always suffered alone, sent for me to bid me farewell. Three days before her death I was at her bedside.

"'My son,' she said, 'I have sent for you to tell you something which I feel you ought to know before my death. I have always led you to believe that your father was dead.'

"'And he is not dead. I have felt sure of that for a long time.'

"'How could you nave guessed it?' exclaimed my mother.

"'By your sadness, and, too, because you have never taken me to his grave, nor even spoken of it. My poor mother, did he leave you?'

"'No, no! Do not blame him; it was not his fault that he had to leave us.'

"'He is in prison, then; but surely he is innocent?'

"'No, he is quite free.'

"'How is it, then——"

"'Listen, but do not interrupt me, for I have not strength for much. The name you have, Gauthier, was my father's and mine, but not your father's, Nicolas. My father was a wealthy shipbuilder at Havre. He died in 1825. My mother sold everything, and then she and I went to Paris to live.

"'She was ambitious for me and wished me to marry well. We had plenty of money, and as that opens most doors she managed to get introductions and invitations to her heart's content.

"'I was nineteen, and people said I was beautiful. My mother paid great attention to my toilette, and by mixing in society I soon lost all traces of having been brought up in the provinces. There was a young Russian captain, Prince NicolaÏ Porthikopoff, whom I used to meet at different houses. He belonged to the Czar's Imperial Guard, and was an attachÉ of the Russian Embassy in Paris.

"'He was very handsome, and was as noble at heart as he was by birth.

"He loved me, and I returned his affection. At the end of six months he came to my mother and asked for my hand. Our engagement caused a great stir in Paris, it scandalized the aristocracy and caused jealousy in our own circle. Prince NicolaÏ cared nothing for the storm that he had roused.

"'There was so much gossip, and there was so much scheming to break off our engagement, that the Ambassador himself felt it his duty to inform the Czar. It appears the Czar only laughed at it all until the Princess Porthikopoff, your father's mother, wrote herself asking for his intervention, and declaring that she would never give her consent to our union. The Czar wrote a letter of advice to the Prince, but as it took no effect, and the Princess still insisted, the Czar objected formally to the marriage. Your father saw that it was hopeless, that there was no chance whatever of winning the consent of his mother or of his Sovereign. He proposed to me a desperate expedient, and I, young and inexperienced as I was, and believing that it would be for our mutual happiness, consented.

"'We were to be married privately, but, as your father told me, the marriage would not be legal, as we could not have the necessary papers, and should even have to be married under assumed names, and in another country. He believed that then, when his mother saw that the honour of a Porthikopoff was at stake, she would take steps to have the ceremony performed again with the necessary formalities. He thought that she would do for the honour and pride of her family what she would not do for love of her son.

"'I consented to everything; but, alas! a month later, seeing that your father continued to brave all authority, the Czar recalled him to St. Petersburg.

"'Your father pleaded our cause but in vain! Nicholas I., proud autocrat as he was, and the Princess were both inexorable. Your father was exasperated, and he gave vent to his indignation. The result was that he was ordered to start the next day for Irkoutsk, in Siberia He was to be exiled! Exiled because he had loved me, because he wished to do his duty and make me his lawful wife! My mother and I went away to Lille, where you were born.

"'The Prince, your father, was not allowed to write or receive letters without sending them first to the Governor to be read and approved. I happened to meet with someone who was going to Irkoutsk, and begged him to take a message to your father and to tell him of your birth. When this man returned he brought me a letter from your father, in which he said he was going to try and make his escape, and that he would never again set foot in Russia.

"'Just at this time my mother died. Your father was not able to put his plan into execution, and a year later he was allowed to write to me, but merely to tell me the conditions on which Nicholas I. offered to allow his return from exile. The Czar had chosen a wife for him, and he was to renounce me for ever. Your father added that he was refusing such terms; that he would never break his vow to me, and preferred exile to what was offered him.

"'He was right!' I exclaimed, proudly, for I was glad to find that I had no cause to blush for my father.

"'It was noble of him!' said my mother, and her eyes filled with tears. 'It was noble, but how could I accept such a sacrifice? I could not; it would have been too selfish. There was only one thing to do, and although in doing it I had to sacrifice all my womanly pride, my courage held out. I wrote to your father, telling him to accept the Czar's offer, as I myself was about to marry.'

"'It was not true?'

"'No! No! It was to save him. I wanted him to be free, to be happy if possible. As for me, all was over. He wrote to me, reproaching me, and it broke my heart. I did not reply to his letter. I went back to Paris, where I lived quietly and unknown, devoting myself entirely to you.... Six months later I heard that he had married a Princess according to the will of the Czar, and that he was appointed captain.'

"'Is he happy?'

"'I have never heard another word about him, and as he has no idea of my whereabouts, he could never have made inquiries about me. Now you know all, you know the cause of my sadness and the secret of your birth. You must now judge between your father and your mother, and either pardon or condemn us, for, alas! my poor boy, you have no name and no future.'

"My poor mother hid her face in her hands and sobbed in an agony of grief.

"'I have nothing to forgive, mother; but if you wish me to judge my father and you, I can only say that you both did your duty and that your sacrifice was sublime. Society makes laws at its own pleasure, but in the sight of God, who surely is over all, your marriage was valid, and I have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, you were both victims, and you suffered through your loyalty to each other—and your love was surely truer and more ideal than many which society recognises.'

"My poor mother could not speak for some time, her emotion was so great. Later on she told me where I should find some papers, which I was to read after her death, and she added:—

"'You will also find in the same drawer two things by which your father would always recognise you, if you should ever meet him and if you wished to make yourself known. I leave it entirely to you to act as you think best; but if you ever should see him, tell him that I was true to him, explain all, and tell him that I loved him to the last.'

"Two days later my poor mother passed away. I was thus left an orphan and nameless. I was utterly alone in the world. I had not a creature to love me, and I knew that I must never dare to love anyone. Left to myself, I cursed the whole world and its prejudices and baseness."

Gauthier covered his face with his hand, and Saussier, respecting his friend's grief, did not speak for some time. The two officers walked on through the snow without noticing where they were going.

Suddenly Gauthier said, bitterly: "You understand now the cause of the melancholy that is always weighing on me?"

"I do, indeed," replied Saussier.

"The tortures of the Inquisition are nothing to what I endure, when I think of my poor mother suffering through all those years without a word of consolation from any living soul."

"It must have been terrible!"

"Then, too, you know now why I always find out the name of the Russian commander before every attack; for by now he must be at least a General."

"Yes, it is indeed fearful!"

Sebastopol had been besieged ever since October 9th, 1854. Marshal Canrobert commanded the troops with Lord Raglan.

Prince Mentschiskoff and Prince Todleben resisted the attack bravely.

The sight of the city, which was all in ruins, exasperated the Russian Commander-in-Chief, and he ordered a sally, but the French and the English were well on guard and repulsed this desperate attempt.

The attack was terrible, and the heroism on every side sublime.

The most warlike of the besieged troops rushed against the French, preferring to have to do with the furia francesca rather than with the British deliberation and sang-froid. The combat was sustained and desperate.

Profiting by the confusion amongst the French troops, caused by the death of their Commander-in-Chief, the Russians succeeded in obtaining the first trench. The besiegers, however, got reinforcements and the struggle was continued.

Two young officers, who were fighting side by side, attracted everyone's notice. They were in the first rank, and they led their soldiers into the thickest of the fray and cut down the enemy right and left.

One of them was rather in advance of the other, and was encouraging his soldiers to follow him. Suddenly with his pistol he took aim at a Russian commander, who, on seeing that the enemy was gaining ground, had spurred his horse forward and was calling to his soldiers to advance. Another horseman, seeing the danger his chief was in, rushed before him, exclaiming:—

"Take care, General Porthikopoff!"

On hearing this the French officer dropped his murderous weapon and stood as if paralyzed, looking at his enemy.

On receiving the warning the Prince had drawn out his pistol and fired at the French officer. The ball struck him, and he fell. His friend, who had just reached him, and who had also heard the Russian General's name, drew his men to the right where the enemy was strongest, exclaiming, in desperation: "Follow me! Follow me!"

The Russian soldiers rushed at the young officer, who had fallen, and would have killed him, but, waving them off, he said he must speak with their General before he died.

The Prince, astonished at the request at such a moment, consented.

"What is it you have to say, and why did you not attempt to shoot me?"

"I could not."

"But what prevented you?"

"Duty."

"I do not understand."

The young officer drew from his tunic a letter, a locket, and a small box, and handed them to the General.

"What is the meaning of this?" exclaimed the Prince.

"Look inside the locket."

The Prince opened it and started. "My portrait and Madeline's!" Then, opening the box: "And her engagement ring! Where did you get these from?"

"The letter will explain all."

The Prince opened it, and, after glancing at it quickly, said: "And you are——"

"Nicolas Gauthier."

"And your mother?"

"She is dead. Her love for you killed her."

"That is not true, for she married another."

"Never! She loved you to the last, and died with your name on her lips. Read the letter to the end."

Mechanically the General read the letter, and then kissing the locket passionately: "I knew, I felt that Madeline was true!" he said, and then bending over Gauthier, he continued: "How did you recognise me, though?"

"I heard them call you by your name."

"That was why you would not fire?"

"Yes. A son could not kill his father, even though he be his enemy."

"But you allowed a father to kill his son?"

"I could not help it. It was fate."

"No, no, my son! You shall not die! You must live!"

"God wills otherwise, father. Farewell! I have only seen you for a minute, but I am satisfied."

Gauthier made a great effort to get up, smiled at the Prince, and then fell back dead.

"My boy, my boy!" exclaimed the Prince, in desperation, stooping over the dead body of his son. "Dead, dead, and killed by me, his father! And this is the work of our Czar! Oh, cruel fate!"

The General remained some minutes kneeling by the side of his son in mute despair, and then for the last time he sprang on to his horse and rushed into the thickest of the fray.

"Prince! Prince! what are you doing there?" exclaimed a French officer at his side.

"I am seeking death! I have killed my son, and I will not survive him——"

He had scarcely finished when a ball struck him and he fell down dead.

"Who can say there is no Providence! The father has not waited long to join his son," exclaimed the French officer, as he rushed on at the head of his men.

For some time the result of the combat seemed uncertain, but at last the French won the day, and the Russians had to take refuge in Sebastopol.

When Marshal Canrobert went over the battlefield, he asked where the young officer was who belonged to the Foreign Legion, and who had fought so bravely.

"He fell by the retrenchments," was the reply.

The Commander-in-Chief rode over to the spot named and ordered the surgeon to examine the young officer who was lying on the ground. It was, however, too late.

"There was another officer of the same Legion whom I saw fall there, to the left," said the Marshal.

The young officer was brought and was told that his friend was dead.

"It is a pity," he said to the Marshal, "for you have lost a true soldier."

"What was his name?"

"Nicolas Gauthier."

"And yours?"

"FÉlix Saussier."

The Commander-in-Chief ordered the army to fall into rank, and then as they presented arms he took the Cross of the Legion of Honour which he was wearing himself and placed it on Lieutenant Saussier's breast.

"Wear it proudly," he said; "it is the recompense that France accords to her bravest sons, and you well deserve it."

Then taking another Cross from one of the officers who belonged to the État Major, he placed it on the body of Gauthier. "You, too, have well earned it," he said, "and shall take it with you to your grave."

The troops filed off, after passing in front of the two officers, the one wounded and the other dead. Marshal Canrobert himself raised his sword and saluted the two heroes (the one, alas! had died too soon, and the other was destined to become one of the bravest Generals of France), and then passed on deeply moved, but satisfied with the victory, and ignorant of the drama which had taken place so near to him.