CHAPTER III.

THE TRUMPET PEAL.

"Oh, war! thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister." SHAKSPEARE.

I SHOULD make a bad historian. Thoughts and memories crowd so thickly upon me, I forget that I commenced writing these pages with the purpose of recording what I know of the mighty events that have been passing round me. In this I shall fail, I am sure. To a woman's heart and mind things present themselves so naturally only as they blend with or mar the harmony of home affections and interests. And looking over the pages of my diary, I find little mention of things with which the hearts of other nations beside our own were palpitating-much of those which agitated only mine and those linked with it. Well, outer events were soon to become inextricably twined with the inner life of the family in almost every home of France.

The trumpet note was sounded at last. On the 15th of July the Emperor Napoleon proclaimed war against Prussia. Of course ere then our ears were prepared for the sound that was to prove itself to be the death-knell of an empire and its glory, though few indeed caught the minor key of coming disaster in that thrilling peal.

We were sitting in the drawing-room on the afternoon of that day, my mother, Nina, and I. From time to time we had heard sounds which betokened unusual excitement in the city, beyond the quiet space, near the Luxembourg gardens, in which our house stood. Pealing bells, and distant shouts, and martial instruments. They fell on our ears, on my mother's and mine at least, sadly as funeral music. Too truly we guessed the cause.

What Nina felt I know not. She sat surrounded by a mass of white flowers and net, quietly and composedly twining the former into a tasteful wreath, which on the morrow was to crown the pretty head of Marie Fournier, our lively and indulged waiting-maid. She had been with us almost from a child, was an orphan, and was regarded by our mother and ourselves quite as one of the family. Her marriage was to take place next day; and we had undertaken

to provide our favourite with the white bridal dress, wreath, and veil that are considered so indispensable for the toilet of the lowliest bride in Paris. The snowy muslin dress was ready; Nina's graceful fingers were to do the rest.

My mother lay with closed eyes; but the pained, worn look of the dear pale face was not that of sleep. I sat at the window watching for Léon or Uncle Lucien.

Presently I saw them coming together. Uncle Lucien walked quicker than usual; his step was light and firm, his portly form erect, his head thrown back; and as they came nearer I saw his face was flushed, his eye sparkling, and his manner eagerly animated as he spoke rapidly and vehemently to Léon, who walked by his side grave and silent and thoughtful.

Hardly had they entered the house when Arnaud rushed violently into the room, decked, as usual, with képi and sword, knapsack and bayonet. Furiously charging and upsetting Nina's work-table, he shouted out, "Hurrah for Berlin! Mamma! Renée! Nina! war is declared at last! Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur! Oh, I wish I was Léon, to be going à Berlin, à Berlin!" and the excited child capered wildly about the room, utterly regardless of the effect his sudden intelligence was producing upon my mother.

She had started up white and trembling just as Léon entered the room, and laying his hand on Arnaud's shoulder, said, in the low, quiet tones he always knew better than to disregard, gentle as they were, "Hush, Arnaud; do you not see you are frightening your mother? Go and tell Justine and Louis, if you will; but, remember, no noise." The boy obeyed at once, first pausing to say, "Pardon, mamma," as he raised his glowing face for her to kiss.

Then Léon took my mother's hand in his, sat down on a low seat beside her couch, and spoke in calm, reassuring tones of the tidings with which every heart in Paris was throbbing that day.

Presently Uncle Lucien joined us, and it was almost impossible not to catch some of the martial enthusiasm with which he rejoiced over the prospect of France wiping off the slight her honour had received in the Prussian king's insolent in

and Rhine water.

Nina appeared wholly unconcerned, twisting and untwisting her flowers, arranging and rearranging the fall of the net-folds-breaking upon our grave thoughts and serious conversation with appeals as to the best way of placing this orangeblossom or that rose-bud. Yes, even when we spoke of the too certain likelihood of Léon's regiment being ordered at once to the front.

I saw Léon's colour change as he met the bright glance of her untroubled eyes, and my heart swelled indignantly. Yet I noticed that somehow the wreath, with all the time and apparent interest bestowed upon it, never looked like the work of Nina's artistic fingers. She did care, I knew, and that made it worse to bear. How could she feel pleasure in teasing Léon, when he would probably be so soon parted from

us.

That day and the next, and the next, indeed for many days, Paris was all in one wild glow of martial excitement. Crowds of blue blouses and well-dressed men formed round the Corps Législatif, blocked up the Place de Carrousel, thronged the Tuileries gates, gathered in place and boulevard, wherever public office or military depôt formed a point of interest, shouting ever the warcry, "A Berlin! à Berlin! Vive l'Empereur!" Cafés were filled with eager, excited groups; carriages rolled rapidly and thickly through the busy streets; orderlies rode to and fro from one post to another; soldiers passed and repassed to the sound of stirring music, cheered with frantic enthusiasm wherever they went. In hotels, at crowded table d'hôtes, at the social board, round the quiet home-hearth, there was but one watchword, one topic-the War. How could we think the flag of France, that fluttered gaily in the soft summer air from so many parts of the rejoicing city, would soon be torn from its high pinnacle, steeped in the nation's life-blood, and trampled in the dust by the victorious foe!

No one seemed to dream of defeat. A bold dash over the broad Rhine, a victorious progress through a terror-stricken land, a triumphal entry into a vanquished capital, a glorious return of laurel-crowned victors,―these were the things of which men, and women too, talked in those

sample of the rest-representatives of many classes gathered in it. Grave, elderly men, Uncle Lucien's political friends; Léon's brother-officers; Victor's fellow-students; Arnaud's schoolcompanions; Nina's gay acquaintance of the fashionable world, -different elements all, yet fused for the time in a kindred glow of feeling. The mighty armies of France; her old hereditary traditions of victory and glory; the new and terrible weapons to be brought against the foe; the energy and spirit of her people; the eager war-appetite of her soldiers, -all were brought forward to fan the flame, till all minds burned with a white-heat of enthusiasm.

faulty

It is true, some older and graver men would now and again drop under-breathed queries as to whether the soldiers of France were all they used to be, all they would need to be, to meet men, heavy, it might be, and dull, but resolute and true, and fighting for "Vaterland." Others would hint at possible discrepancies between paper and flesh and blood armies-at and corrupt system of commissariat-at a rush into darkness by rash and inconsiderate men, heated by party strife, and urged on by selfish interests. But these were only whispers, borne down by the swell of many voices; and those who breathed them were met by withering sar casm, or cutting contempt, or hot-headed indig nation. I noted them more after what Léon said to me the evening of the declaration.

All the others had retired to rest, and he and I were standing looking down upon the partially illuminated city, and listening to the hoarse roar of the multitude that thronged the streets. We had been silent some time, occupied with our own thoughts, when a body of excited, half-tipsy ouvriers paraded the street before our house, singing snatches of war-songs, and shouting, "A Berlin! à Berlin!" at intervals. As they passed out of sight and hearing, I thought Í heard a suppressed sigh from Léon. I had long wished to ask him to tell me his full opinions as to the war-this was a good opportunity. So I began,-"Léon, you do not like this war. Why? Is it not a just one? Will France be beaten?"

He smiled rather sadly, I thought, and an

swered," Three questions at once, Renée; which must I answer first?"

"But," I said very earnestly, "I mean, what do you think about the war? Why are you so grave and silent, when others, your brotherofficers even, are so enthusiastic over it? It frightens me, Léon. If you, who are so brave and fearless, are afraid of the result, you must have good reason. What is it?"

He was silent a moment, then answered in a low, grave voice: "I am afraid for France, Renée. She is rushing madly against a foe without measuring her relative strength."

But, Léon," I said, "surely our powerful armies our legions of brave soldiers-will be more than a match for those stupid Germans."

"Stupid Germans !'--ah, Renée, you do not know of what you are speaking; and all is not gold that glitters."

66 Then you are doubtful of the result?" "More than doubtful. As I said before, I am afraid for France. Goaded on by her rulers, she is rushing to her doom. Renée, you, at least, must know how my heart bleeds to say these things. We may win-God grant we may!-but the odds are desperately against us."

"Léon, Léon, how can this be? Everyone says how wonderfully strong are our armies and fleets; what immense sums have been spent upon them; and where are braver men than French soldiers?" "All true, Renée: our armies are strong-on paper; immense sums have been spent upon them -nominally. French soldiers are brave, but bravery is not all. Long before this war was thought of, I have felt convinced that our whole army system is rotten to its core. Money has been lavishly squandered, but not accounted for. Ignorance prevails to a frightful extent among our soldiery, not in the ranks alone, alas! And the discipline is fearfully lax. The management of our commissariat and military stores must assuredly break down under the tremendous strain that will be put upon it at so short a notice. Then the men-they are brave indeed. Yes; they would follow their officer cheerfully to breast a bayonet charge, or face the cannon's mouth, or dash forward on a forlorn hope; but they will not obey him in minor matters-in barracks or in camp. Many regiments are even

now in a state of embryo mutiny. Officer distrusts officer; men- But it is useless dwelling upon this gloomy picture, Renée, and there are bright exceptions-brave men and true, in office and in ranks. We must hope for the best." "But your own regiment, Léon?"

His face brightened. Ah, it is one of the Emperor's picked ones. The men are a fine set of fellows, for the most part, in better order and discipline than many."

"Do you think, then, the Germans are so much better prepared than we?"

"Yes, Renée. The six months I spent in Germany a year ago first opened my eyes to the superiority of their military system over our own. You heard me explain it to-night. And it will not be with Prussia alone we shall have to fight, but with united Germany. The different states will join as one man to do battle for the Fatherland. My friend Von Hergheim left this morning. He told me, when he bade me farewell yesterday, how, since the first probability of strife appeared, his countrymen, of all nationalities, were making their way homewards-from England, from Russia, from every point of Europe-yes, even across the wide Atlantic itself-all to be absorbed in that great machine, the German army. The Emperor has reckoned without his host in hoping for the support of any of the states disaffected to Prussia.-But do not look so rueful, Renée. I ought not to have spoken to you thus, but my mind was so full of the subject when you asked me. All may yet be well. And perhaps the over-confidence and flippancy with which most men look on these things make me over-fearful. Necessity is a stern teacher, and pressure brings out hidden stores from latent sources in men's hearts and minds. I grieve to have troubled you, Renée."

Ah, Léon, when have we had an unshared trouble?"

I saw a shade pass over his face even in the dim light, and I knew he was thinking of his unconfessed love for Nina. Yet it was no secret to me. A little longer we talked, of nothing I need record here. But these words of Léon's sank deeply into my heart. All the more so because I hid them there. In the dreary afterdays, when German cannon boomed round us,

when German iron and steel girt us in, in one vast prison-house, how often I looked back on their prophetic truth!

When we parted for the night, and Léon's last tender words of hope and cheer had been spoken, I went to my own room-through the one in which I was thankful to see my mother sleeping quietly-with a dull, heavy sense of utter consternation growing upon me. Dark heavy clouds were gathering round, with no rift in their heavy folds through which the rays of the Sun of righteousness could glint. Forebodings, all the more difficult to contend with because they were so vague, weighed upon my heart. And I had never heard of One whose loving hands are ever stretched forth to lift the burden from the failing shoulder-the weight from the oppressed heart. Oh, had I known then of Him who says to all, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden-Cast your burden, all your care, upon me, for I care for you, and will in no wise cast out," I had not knelt so long that night, with weary frame and troubled heart, before the pictured form of her who, while she called that gracious One son, bent the knee before Him as Saviour, and rejoiced in His salvation.

The dawn was breaking dim and gray before, uncalmed and unsoothed, I slept at last. How could I know those calm, untroubled faces in the saintly ranks above would bend down from their unbroken quiet of holy, unruffled repose to compassionate my unrest? When the taint and defilement of earthly passion and feeling was purged away, would not the memory of, and sympathy with, earthly pain and sorrow vanish too? And if not, how many were claiming their aid that night!-many who needed it more than I-if that could be; for many would be called to lay many offerings on the gorgeous altar of war-I, we, only one. Yet might it not be that that one to us was as much as the many to others? But would the saints measure that duly? Could they? Yet what hope was there for us-sisters, mothers, children of France-but in their favour and intercessions. How else could our need and sorrow and fear be noticed by Him who sat high above them all, with the lightnings of judgment and wrath ready to fall from his mighty hands upon our guilty nation!

In my blindness and pain I knelt that night, calling upon every saint I could think of to plead with the blessed Virgin to intercede for us with her Son. Ah! well may tears gather thickly and fall, blotting my letters as I trace them, as I think how I wronged Him, the utterance of whose loving lips was ever, "Come-come unto me, unto me-unto myself." Thank God, I know him now, not as the terrible Christ, enthroned amidst appalling judgment thunders, needing the intercessions of myriads of saints to turn aside the edge of his vengeful sword, but as the meek and lowly Jesus-the "Man of sorrows" once below-the Man in glory now above, CC touched with the feeling of our infirmities," ever pleading, ever watching, ever caring for those whose trials he gauges, not alone by his omniscient wisdom, but by deep experience gathered with 'strong crying and tears in the days of his flesh" -sharing still the sorrows and weaknesses of those whom he has purchased, not with "silver and gold," but with his own precious blood-the fountain, the one only fountain, opened for sin and uncleanness.

It was no new thing for me to feel, in hours of anxiety and pain, that aching void within, which no earthly treasure, however precious, can fill, the deep yearnings which no mere human voice, however tender, can still. I could recall hours in my childhood when I dreamed of a time when both might be satisfied in the holy calm of the cloister's solitude; but since my early girlhood life's cares and duties had so thickened round me as to make me put away the fulfilment of that dream, and gird myself for the battle of outer life, shutting my ears, when I could, to the inward voices that spoke of God and eternity, lest they should unfit me for the secular path I was resolved to tread, not of gaiety and follythese had little charm for me-but of family usefulness and domestic love. I was needed at home. Others might work out their salvation in cloister and in cell; I must be of those who cling to their skirts, and trust to their supererogatory works to help their pleadings to procure entrance at last, when purgatory should have done its cleansing work, into the rest of soul and spirit that could never be my portion below. Oh, how thick is the gloomy veil of falsehood and error

THE next day was our pretty Marie's bridal. It took place in the old church of St. Roch; it was the wish of the bridegroom's parents that their only son should be wedded in the gray old walls which had witnessed their own union and his baptism. They kept a baker's shop in the Rue St. Honoré, hard by, which was to belong to Jules and Marie then, while the old people rested with them in their quiet evening days. WeNina, Uncle Lucien, Arnaud, and I-were present. And a pretty sight it was, Jules with his straight manly figure, and proudly happy face; little Marie, shrinking, blushing, trembling, her round cheek pale and red by turns, her bright eyes veiled by the long dark lashes, and her rosy lip quivering between smiles and sobs. Ah, how fearfully changed must have been that innocent childish face ere the terrible day on which Augustine saw it last! Ah, Marie, poor brighteyed Marie, there was no presentiment of coming doom in the April tears and half-joyful sobs with which you left the house that had sheltered your orphan youth for the home in which the meshes of a fearful fate began ere long to gather round your heedless footsteps.

Our fears and Léon's hopes were soon fulfilled. His regiment received orders almost immediately to hold itself in readiness to proceed to the front. It was to form part of the "Army of the Rhine." We saw little of him those days; he went out early and returned late, and when he was at home was full of life and animation, eagerly discussing plans and probabilities, and seeming to have thrown his doubts and forebodings to the winds. The soldier instincts so strong in his nation and his race asserted their power; the

welcome change from the stagnation of barrack life and parade duties to the stirring prospect of camp and field, the hopeful elasticity of youth rebounding from the restraint of anxious thought and troubled probing into the roots of things that had been his of late, alike tended to quench the haunting whispers born of quiet midnight hours of study and research.

When I said something to him about it, he answered, "A soldier's duty is not to examine, to question, to despond, Renée, but to obey and press forwards. In time of peace, it is well to look round and point out the weak parts in the fortress; but in time of war, we must put on a bold front and stop the breach with our bodies. And in face of the foe I cannot believe France can be untrue to her old hereditary fame. There is a spirit among her soldiers now worthy of the traditions of a glorious past. If it will only last, and bear out the vicissitudes of a long and trying campaign."

"And will it?"

A shade of the old care swept over his face as he answered, "I do not ask myself the question, Renée. For the present I have to strain every nerve to do what one man can to forward preparations in my own company; by-and-by to lead them, perhaps, against the enemy, and show them how Frenchmen should meet the foe. For the rest, time must decide. Do you remember the words of the English poet, Renée :Theirs not to reason whyTheirs but to do and die '?"

666

At this moment Léon was summoned away, and I sat still with those last ominous words ringing in my ear, "to do and die." A cold chill crept over me. What if they should be prophetic? What if Léon, our Léon, should be among those who returned no more? For there would be such, many such. Yet we little realized then how strong was that probability. The idea of the danger was shadowy and vague, until the dim echoes of the far-off strife reached our shrinking ears. It was the separation we thought of most.

The dear mother bore her pain with the same sweet, uncomplaining patience she always showed in bodily suffering. Her brow was calm, and a faint smile rested as usual upon her gentle lips.