CHAPTER I Pierre Pasquin I hate that drum's discordant sound, Of tawdry lace and glittering arms; And when Ambition's voice commands, To march, and fight, and fall in foreign lands. IN the Rue Montorge, Grenoble, not far from the famous inn, the Hotel des Trois Dauphins, stood the little house of Widow Pasquin. It was well known to all persons living in the vicinity, and though used now as a humble epicerie, showed signs that it had seen better days. The plain stone facade was broken by a low doorway, above which ornamental consoles supported a circular stone balcony with a curiously wrought iron railing, so common in the rococo architecture of the Louis Quinze period. Inside all was neat and scrupulously clean, and a modest stock of groceries and staples was arranged upon the counters and shelves. Jeanne Pasquin, or as she was called by her neighbors, the Widow Pasquin, was a small, slender woman, now nearly fifty. She had once, no doubt, possessed beauty, but long years of struggle for subsistence and the terrors and anxieties of the Revolution had left their marks in the careworn eyes and sad lines of her face, Her hair, once black, was thickly streaked with gray and her shoulders somewhat bent. People said she had never been the same since the day the news reached her that her eldest son Robert had perished in the war. Her husband, Amand Pasquin, enjoyed some consideration under the Old Regime, and had been at one time directeur des postes, but, unlike many of his fellows, he embraced warmly the revolutionary doctrines of 1789. On the outbreak of the war in 1792 he entered the army, fought bravely at Valmy and Jemmapes, gained the rank of colonel, followed Bonaparte to Italy and perished at the Bridge of Lodi. Robert had entered the army in 1805 and had been killed at Eylau. Left thus to struggle with the world, the Widow Pasquin had managed to derive enough support from her epicerie to maintain herself and educate her son Pierre, in whom all her love was centered; Pierre, whose manly qualities won for him the hearts. of all, not only of the boys and girls who were his companions, but of old Father Augustin who taught at the college and of Father Morot who preached in the chapel of St. Laurent. On this day, the second of January, 1809, Pierre was eighteen. The Widow Pasquin, sitting in her little shop, was planning to arrange some surprise for him, when the door opened suddenly. There was a merry laugh, a joyful cry, "Ah! there you are, la petite mere," and Pierre sprang forward and caught her in his arms. He was a fine-looking fellow as he stood there by her side, with his well-built form, his dark eyes flashing brightly, his cheeks glowing with health and exercise, and his thick black hair, which he still wore long in fashion of the Directoire, tossed back from his forehead. So thought the fond mother as she looked upon him; so too thought many a fair maiden of the Rue Montorge. "Why do you come so early to-day, Pierre?" inquired the Widow. "News has come of the surrender of Madrid," answered Pierre, "and the good Father Augustin has gone to the cathedral to assist at the Te Deum. I have hastened home to you because I have something to ask of you. This is my birthday, you know. I am eighteen to-day. Now, mother dear, grant me this favor; it will be your greatest birthday gift to me,—let me enter the army." The Widow Pasquin did not answer. She sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. For this, then, she had so carefully watched and guarded her only remaining child! How she had trembled at each decree of the senate which offered to the Emperor new levies of troops! How she had hoped, in 1807, that the Peace of Tilsit would bring repose to France! Now this new war in Spain, with all its terrors; these new levies of men! He too would go like her Amand and her Robert, and she would never see him again. She raised her head and Pierre saw that her eyes were full of tears. "Do not cry, petite mere," he said gaily. "I shall fight for France and the Emperor. I shall win glory! Think how proud you will be when one day you learn that Pierre has done some brave deed and has received the cross, and he comes back to you in a splendid uniform all covered with gold, and tells you of all the adventures of the campaign, and has enough money to make you happy always! Oh, mother, you should have seen Jean Deteau! You remember Jean who lived near the Place St. Andre? He was here yesterday. He goes to Spain, for he is aide-de-camp to Marshal Lannes. You should have seen him with his beautiful uniform and gold lace, his great plumed busby, his glittering sword, and his cross which he won for capturing a gun at Jena. The Emperor gave it him at the review in the great square at Potsdam. He gave it with his own hand, saying, 'For the brave Jean Deteau,' and all the drums rolled. Think of that, mother! How they crowded around him yesterday when he came into the Hotel des Trois Dauphins! Old Monsieur Montfort, the rich banker who lives in the Place Grenette, got out of his carriage and talked to him hat in hand. Think of that! You should have heard him tell how they charged the Prussians at Jena! Forty thousand of our cuirassiers, and at their head the Prince Murat; his long hair streaming in the wind, his gold-embroidered uniform shining in the sun, and his great white plume floating over all, as he waved his riding whip and urged his war horse right into the midst of the enemy, shouting, ' Forward, my brave boys! Vive l'Empereur!'" One "I cannot let you go, my son," said the Widow Pasquin. "You are all that is left to me. The pere Amand went; he too was to win fame and honor. day came news of a great victory—Lodi. bonfires in the streets and all the people danced and sung, but no husband came back to me. There were He was lying dead on the plain. Then Robert—noble, brave Robert—he too must go. Again I heard them crying, 'Glorious victory! Battle of Friedland! Peace of Tilsit!' There were bonfires in the streets, the Mayor illuminated the Hotel de Ville, and the Archbishop celebrated mass in the cathedral, but no Robert came back. My brave boy was dead and cold amid the snow in Poland! Now you would go. For what? To win glory, you say. Alas! some day I shall hear of a famous victory, some Austerlitz, some Friedland, but no Pierre will come back to me! I shall never see my brave boy again!" "But, mother," said Pierre. "This man," continued the Widow, "this Napoleon! What do I profit by his Austerlitz, by his Jena, by his Peace of Tilsit! Has he not robbed me of enough? No, No! I cannot let you go! How I have trembled when I heard of each new levy! rejoiced when you were not drafted! to tell me that you want to leave me. haps of want, for I am getting old to labor, and you will go to perish." How I have Now you come I shall die per The Widow Pasquin covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud. "But, mother," cried Pierre, "I shall have better luck than pere Amand and Robert. You shall never die of want! I shall bring you all things! Everyone should fight for la patrie, for the Emperor, the great Emperor who governs all; who gives our France such glory!" "You will fall like Robert and pere Amand," answered the Widow. "The Pasquins are not lucky. As for fighting for la patrie; why should they fight at all now? They do not fight for France; they fight to |