Father," added I, with some eagerness, "you must
not think that other reasons than my own free will have made me cease to
be a soldier."

"It would ill become me to have borne such a suspicion," interrupted he,
quickly. "When one so young and full of life as you are leaves the
path where lie honor and rank and fame, he must have cause to make the
sacrifice; for I can scarce think, that at your age, these things seem
nought to your eyes."

"You are right, Father, they are not so. They have been my guiding stars
for many a day; alas, that they can be such no longer!"

"There are higher hopes to cherish than these," said he,
solemnly,--"higher than the loftiest longings of ambition; but we all
of us cling to the things of life, till in their perishable nature they
wean us off with disappointment and sorrow. From such a trial am I now
suffering," added he, in a low voice, while the tears rose to his eyes
and slowly coursed along his pale cheeks.

There was a pause neither of us felt inclined to break, when at length
the priest said,--

"What was your corps in the service?"

"The Eighth Hussars of the Guard," said I, trembling at every word.

"Ah, _he_ was in the Guides," repeated he, mournfully, to himself; "you
knew the regiment?"

"Yes, they belonged to the Guard also; they wore no epaulettes, but a
small gold arrow on the collar."

"Like this," said he, unfastening the breast of his cassock, and
taking out a small package, which, among other things, contained the
designation of the _Corps des Guides_ in an arrow of gold embroidery.
"Had he not beautiful hair, long and silky as a girl's?" said he, as he
produced a lock of light and sunny brown. "Poor Alphonse! thou wouldst
have been twenty hadst thou lived till yesterday. If I shed tears, young
man, it is because I have lost the great earthly solace of my solitary
life. Others have kindred and friends, have happy homes, which, even
when bereavements come, with time will heal up the wound; I had but
him!"

"He was your nephew, perhaps?" said I, half fearing to interfere with
his sorrow.

The old man shook his head in token of dissent, while he muttered to
himself,--

"Auerstadt may be a proud memory to some; to me it is a word of sorrow
and mourning. The story is but a short one; alas! it has but one color
throughout:--

"Count Louis de Meringues--of whom you have doubtless heard that he rode
as postilion to the carriage of his sovereign in the celebrated