loved son, Colonel Philippe, at
Havre. Once there, she walked every day beyond the round tower built by
Francois I., to look out for the American packet, enduring the keenest
anxieties. Mothers alone know how such sufferings quicken maternal love.
The vessel arrived on a fine morning in October, 1819, without delay,
and having met with no mishap. The sight of a mother and the air of
one's native land produces a certain affect on the coarsest nature,
especially after the miseries of a sea-voyage. Philippe gave way to a
rush of feeling, which made Agathe think to herself, "Ah! how he loves
me!" Alas, the hero loved but one person in the world, and that person
was Colonel Philippe. His misfortunes in Texas, his stay in New York,--a
place where speculation and individualism are carried to the highest
pitch, where the brutality of self-interest attains to cynicism, where
man, essentially isolated, is compelled to push his way for himself and
by himself, where politeness does not exist,--in fact, even the minor
events of Philippe's journey had developed in him the worst traits of an
old campaigner: he had grown brutal, selfish, rude; he drank and smoked
to excess; physical hardships and poverty had depraved him. Moreover,
he considered himself persecuted; and the effect of that idea is to
make persons who are unintelligent persecutors and bigots themselves. To
Philippe's conception of life, the universe began at his head and ended
at his feet, and the sun shone for him alone. The things he had seen
in New York, interpreted by his practical nature, carried away his last
scruples on the score of morality. For such beings, there are but two
ways of existence. Either they believe, or they do not believe; they
have the virtues of honest men, or they give themselves up to the
demands of necessity; in which case they proceed to turn their slightest
interests and each passing impulse of their passions into necessities.

Such a system of life carries a man a long way. It was only in
appearance that Colonel Philippe retained the frankness, plain-dealing,
and easy-going freedom of a soldier. This made him, in reality, very
dangerous; he seemed as guileless as a child, but, thinking only of
himself, he never did anything without reflecting what he had better
do,--like a wily lawyer planning some trick "a la Maitre Gonin"; words
cost him nothing, and he said as many as he could to get people to
believe. If, unfortunately, some one refused