"O, I know you now, my dear, dear papa," said the boy, sobbing. "I knew you by the voice--but how changed you are! Why, your mustaches are turned gray."

"Victor, Victor, where is your mother?" gasped the soldier.

"Poor mamma!" said the boy.

"Speak--I charge you, boy."

"She is dead."

"Dead!" Francois fell to the ground as if a bullet had pa.s.sed through his brain. When he recovered his senses, he saw Victor kneeling beside him, and bathing his head with cold water, which he had brought in his hat from a neighboring spring. In a few words, the child told him their cottage had taken fire in the night, and been burned to the ground, and his mother had perished in the flames.

A kind cottager soon made his appearance, and conducted the unfortunate father and son to his humble cabin. Here they pa.s.sed the night and one or two days following. During that time, Francois Bertrand neither ate nor slept, but wept over his misfortune with an agony that refused all consolation. On the third day only he regained his composure; but it was only to be conscious of a new and overwhelming misfortune. His eyesight was gone. The agony of mind he had suffered, and the tears he had shed, had completed the ravages of his disorder.

"Where are you, Victor?" said the soldier.

"Here, by your side, father; don't you see me?"

"Alas! no, my boy. I can see nothing. Give me your little hand. Your poor father is blind."

The agonizing sobs of the boy told him how keenly he appreciated his father's misfortune.

"Dry your eyes, Victor;" said the soldier. "Remember the instructions of your poor mother, how she taught you to submit with resignation to all the sufferings that Providence sees fit to inflict upon us in this world of sorrow. Henceforth you must see for both of us; you will be my eyes, my boy."

"Yes, father; and I will work for you and support you."

"You are too young and delicate, Victor. We must beg our bread."

"_Beg_, father?"

"Yes, you shall guide my footsteps. There are good people in the world who will pity my infirmities and your youth. When they see my ragged uniform, they will say, 'There is one of the braves who upheld the honor of France upon the burning sands of Egypt,' and they will not fail to drop a few sous into the old soldier's hat. Come, Victor, we must march. We have been too long a burden on our poor neighbor.

_Courage, mon enfant, le bon temps viendra._"

And so the boy and his father set forth upon their wanderings. Neither asked alms; but when seated by the roadside, under the shadow of an overhanging tree, the pa.s.ser-by would halt, and bestow a small sum upon the worn and blind soldier. Victor was devoted to his father, and Heaven smiled upon his filial affection. Though denied the society and sports so dear to his youth, he was always cheerful and happy in the accomplishment of his task. Often did his innocent gayety beguile his father into a temporary forgetfulness of his sufferings. Then he would place his hand upon the boy's head, and stroking his soft, curling locks, smile sweetly as his sightless eyes were turned towards him, and commence some stirring narrative of military adventure.

In this way, days, weeks, months, and even years rolled by. They were every where well received and kindly treated; and all their physical wants were supplied. But the old soldier often sighed to think of the burden his misfortunes imposed upon his boy, and of his wearing out his young life without congenial companionship, without instruction, without a future beyond the life of a mendicant. He often prayed in secret that death might liberate, his little guide from his voluntary service.

One day, Francois was seated alone on a stone by the roadside, Victor having gone to the neighboring village on an errand, when he suddenly heard a carriage stop beside him. The occupant, a man of middle age, alighted, and approached the soldier.

"Your name," said the stranger, "is, I think, Francois Bertrand."

"The same."

"A soldier of the army of Egypt?"

"Yes."

"And that pretty boy who guides you is your son?"

"He is--Heaven bless him!"

"Amen! But has it never occurred to you, my friend, that you are doing him great injustice in keeping him by you at an age when he ought to be getting an education to enable him to push his way in the world?"

"Alas! sir, I have often thought of it. But what could supply his place? and then, who would befriend and educate him?"

"His place might be supplied by a dog--and for his protector, I, myself, who have no son, should be glad to adopt and educate him."

His son's place supplied by a dog! The thought was agony. And to part with Victor! The idea was as cruel as death itself. The old soldier was silent.

"You are silent, my friend. Has my offer offended you?"

"No sir--no. But you will pardon a father's feelings."

"I respect them--and I do not wish to hurry you. Take a day to think of my proposition, and to inform yourself respecting my character and position. I am a merchant. My name is Eugene Marmont, and I reside at No. 17 Rue St. Honore, Paris. I will meet you at this spot to-morrow at the same hour, and shall then expect an answer. _Au revoir._" He placed a golden louis in the hand of the soldier, and departed.

A little reflection convinced Bertrand that it was his duty to accept the merchant's offer. But cruel as was the task of reconciling himself to parting with his son, that of inducing Victor to acquiesce in the arrangement was yet more difficult. It required the exercise of authority to sever the ties that bound the son to the father. But it was done--Victor resigned his task to a little dog that was procured by the merchant, and after an agonizing farewell was whirled away in Marmont's carriage.

Years pa.s.sed on. Victor outstripped all his companions at school, and stood at the head of the military academy; for he was striving to win a name and fortune for his father. The good Marmont, from time to time, endeavored to obtain tidings of the soldier; but the latter had purposely changed his usual route, and, satisfied that his son was in good hands, felt a sort of pride in not intruding his poverty and misfortunes on the notice of Victor's new companions. The boy, himself, was much distressed at not seeing or hearing from his father; but he kept struggling on, saying to himself, "_Courage, Victor--le bon temps viendra_--the good time will come."

On the death of Marmont, he entered the army as a sub-lieutenant, and fought his way up to a captaincy under the eye of the emperor. At the close of a brilliant campaign he was invited to pa.s.s a few weeks at the chateau of a general officer named Duvivier, a few leagues from Paris. The company there was brilliant, composed of all that was most beautiful, talented, and distinguished in the circle in which the general moved. But the "star of that goodly company" was Julie Duvivier, the youthful and accomplished daughter of the general. Many distinguished suitors contended for the honor of her hand; but the moment Victor appeared, they felt they had a formidable rival. The belle of the chateau could not help showing her decided preference for him, though, with a modesty and delicacy natural to his position, he refrained from making any decided advances.

One night, however, transported beyond himself by pa.s.sion, he betrayed the secret of his heart to Julie, as he led her to her seat after an intoxicating waltz. The reception of his almost involuntary avowal was such as to convince him that his affection was returned. But he felt that he had done wrong--and a high sense of honor induced the young soldier immediately to seek the general, and make him a party to his wishes.

He found him alone in the embrasure of a window that opened on the garden of the chateau.

"General," said he, with military frankness, "I love your daughter."

The general started, and cast a glance of displeasure on the young man.

"I know you but slightly, Captain Bertrand," he answered, "but you are aware that the man who marries my daughter must be able to give her her true position in society. Show me the proofs of your n.o.bility and wealth, and I will entertain your proposition."

"Alas!" answered the young soldier in a faltering voice, "I feel that I have erred--pity me--forgive me--I was led astray by a pa.s.sion too strong to be controlled. I have no name--and my fortune is my sword."

The general bowed coldly, and the young soldier pa.s.sed out into the garden. It was a brilliant moonlight evening. Every object was defined as clearly as if illuminated by the sun's rays. Removing his chapeau, that the night air might cool his fevered brow, he was about to take his favorite seat beside the fountain where he had pa.s.sed many hours in weaving bright visions of the future, when he perceived that it was already occupied. An old man in a faded military uniform sat there, with a little dog lying at his feet. One glance was sufficient--the next instant Victor folded his father in his arms.

"Father!" "My boy!" The words were interrupted by convulsive sobs.

After the first pa.s.sionate greeting was over, the old man pa.s.sed his hand over his son's dress, and a smile of joy was revealed by the bright moonbeams.

"A soldier! I thought I heard the clatter of your sabre," said the old man. "Where did you get these epaulets?"

"At Austerlitz, father--they were given me by the emperor."

"Long live the emperor!" said the old man. "He never forgets his children."

"No, father. For when he gave me my commission, he said, thoughtfully, 'Bertrand! your name is familiar.' 'Yes, sire--my father served under the tricolor.' 'I remember--he was one of my old Egyptians.' And then--father--then he gave me the cross of the legion--and told me, when I found you, to affix it to your breast in his name."

"It is almost too much!" sighed the old soldier, as the young officer produced the cross and attached it to his father's breast.