n Moreau, the handsome young blacksmith, left in his native hamlet a
widowed mother, a good, sensible woman, formerly nurse at the chateau,
but who, since the Revolution, had adopted the calling of a
_blanchisseuse_, or laundress. "Mother Moreau," as everybody called
her, had another son than Jean, fortunately too young to be drafted as
a conscript. Years before, this good woman had taken home a poor
little orphan girl, who had grown up to be as a daughter to her, and
more than a sister to Jean. Marie Lenoir, the pretty young
_blanchisseuse_, was in truth his betrothed wife. The little bouquet
of May rosebuds and forget-me-nots in his button-hole was her parting
gift. As on the hill by the chateau he turned for his last look at the
dear little hamlet, nestled in the pleasant valley, he was not ashamed
to press those flowers to his lips,--not ashamed of the tears that fell
on them. He was too manly to fear being thought unmanly.

Months went by,--months of sad anxiety to Mother Moreau and Marie
Lenoir, for they heard very unfrequently from Jean, and knew that he
was always in danger. He did not take kindly to a soldier's life, but
he tried faithfully to do his duty, so could not be altogether unhappy.
After he had once seen the great Emperor, he felt the enthusiasm which
that wonderful man always inspired, and longed to do something grand to
merit his praise. Then, by a strange and happy chance, he found
himself in the same regiment with his beloved foster-brother, Captain
De Lorme.

At length there rang over France the news of the great battle of
Austerlitz, where the Emperor commanded in person, and defeated his
foes with fearful slaughter. After a time of painful suspense, the
Count De Lorme had word that his son had been badly wounded, and set
out at once for the hospital in which the young officer had been left.
But many weeks went by, and no tidings, good or evil, came to the
friends of the conscript. Mother Moreau, who was a brave woman, inured
to trouble, kept up a hopeful heart; but Marie Lenoir rapidly lost the
roses from her cheeks and the spring from her step, while the laughing
light of her soft brown eyes gave place to a look of sadness and fear.

But where was Jean? Not dead, as his friends feared. Not buried
forever out of their loving sight, in the soldier's crowded and bloody
grave. He was lying at the same hospital which had received his
foster-brother, very ill from several severe wound