Читать книгу The Life of the Moselle - Octavius Rooke - Страница 9

Table of Contents

Once more War stalked the land; again France was aiming, and calling on her sons to fight a foreign foe: but this time her quarrel was a righteous one, for side by side with England she appeared, to guard the weak against the oppression of the strong.

Adèle’s heart was beating with anxiety when the day for drawing the fatal numbers had arrived—those numbers that should determine whether Gustave left her for the battle-field or remained to marry, as had been agreed between them and their parents.

Gustave, however, though he dearly loved his sweet fiancée, loved more that empty trumpet glory, a grand word, and one that chains the hearts of men—but, like the drum and trumpet, its appropriate adjuncts, only expressing a hollow though a ringing sound.

Such was the glory Gustave dreamt of—not true glory, not heroism in daily life, not the dying in defence of what we love—but the rush and the glitter, the pomp and the pride, the excitement and the turmoil of the imagined war.

Little thought he of the days of severe privation, the nights of watching, the constant petty troubles, and the lingering pains brought on by disease engendered by a soldier’s life; and still less, it is to be feared, did his mind dwell on the number of Adèles this ruthless war leaves mourning and trembling, while their husbands, friends, and lovers, fight and die afar. He only thought of glory in the abstract; perhaps also of a time when, a high grade won, triumphant he should return and lay his spoil at Adèle’s feet.

And he was drawn; his friends begged him to let them purchase a substitute—he, with his ambition and his love for them combined, would not allow that they should thus impoverish themselves; but, being strongly urged, he turned to where Adèle silently was grieving, and left the choice to her.

Poor Adèle, knowing well his secret heart, and fearing that he would only fret and chafe at home—perhaps, too, being herself a little tainted with his love for glory—wept, but said, “Go, then, dear Gustave; never shall a French girl counsel her lover to desert his country.”

So, while many a tear and secret prayer are poured out for his welfare, Gustave goes.

The land rings with martial preparations; on all sides is the excitement of the coming war: the eagles and the banners are raised high; and all the air is filled with the grand anthem, “Partant pour la Syrie.”