heart
to sorrow, and that cheek I made pale, and hollow, and sunken as you see
my own. My cursed ambition, that rested not content with my own path in
life, threw its baleful shadow across hers. The story is a short one,
and I may tell it to you.

"When I left Provence to join the army of the South, I was obliged to
leave Marie under the care of an old and distant relative, who resided
some two leagues from us on the Loire. The chevalier was a widower, with
one son about my own age, of whom I knew nothing save that he had never
left his father's house; had been educated completely at home; and had
obtained the reputation of being a sombre, retired bookworm, who avoided
the world, and preferred the lonely solitude of a provincial chateau to
the gay dissipations of Paris.

"My only fear in intrusting my poor sister in such hands was the dire
stupidity of the _sejour_; but as I bid her goodby, I said, laughingly,
'Prenez garde, Marie, don't fall in love with Claude de Lauzan.'

"'Poor Claude!' said she, bursting into a fit of laughter; 'what a sad
affair that would be for him!' So saying, we parted.

"I made the campaign of Italy, where, as I have perhaps too often told
you, I had some opportunities of distinguishing myself, and was promoted
to a squadron on the field of Arcole. Great as my boyish exultation
was at my success, I believe its highest pleasure arose from the
anticipation of Marie's delight when she received my letter with
the news. I wrote to her nearly every week, and heard from her as
frequently. At the time I did not mark, as I have since done, the
altered tone of her letters to me: how, gradually, the high ambitious
daring that animated her early answers became tamed down into half
regretful fears of a soldier's career; her sorrows for those whose
conquered countries were laid waste by fire and sword; her implied
censure of a war whose injustice she more than hinted at; and, lastly,
her avowed preference for those peaceful paths in life that were devoted
to the happiness of one's fellows, and the worship of Him who deserved
all our affection. I did not mark, I say, this change,--the bustle of
the camp, the din of arms, the crash of mounted squadrons, are poor aids
to reflection, and I thought of Marie but as I left her.

"It was after a few months of absence I returned to Provence,--the
_croix d'honneur_ on my bosom, the sabre I won at Lodi by my side. I
rushed into the room bursting with impatience