g, ever resisting, fighting to the last that her
surrender might be the more sweet. Out of a hundred and forty women--But
who can compare where all are so near perfection!

You will wonder why it should be, if this maiden was so beautiful,
that I should be left without a rival. There was a very good reason, my
friends, for I so arranged it that my rivals were in the hospital. There
was Hippolyte Lesoeur, he visited them for two Sundays; but if he lives,
I dare swear that he still limps from the bullet which lodges in his
knee. Poor Victor also--up to his death at Austerlitz he wore my mark.
Soon it was understood that if I could not win Marie, I should at least
have a fair field in which to try. It was said in our camp that it was
safer to charge a square of unbroken infantry than to be seen too often
at the farmhouse of the Ravons.

Now let me be precise for a moment. Did I wish to marry Marie? Ah! my
friends, marriage is not for a Hussar. Today he is in Normandy; tomorrow
he is in the hills of Spain or in the bogs of Poland. What shall he do
with a wife? Would it be fair to either of them? Can it be right that
his courage should be blunted by the thought of the despair which his
death would bring, or is it reasonable that she should be left fearing
lest every post should bring her the news of irreparable misfortune?
A Hussar can but warm himself at the fire, and then hurry onwards, too
happy if he can but pass another fire from which some comfort may come.
And Marie, did she wish to marry me? She knew well that when our silver
trumpets blew the march it would be over the grave of our married life.
Better far to hold fast to her own people and her own soil, where she
and her husband could dwell for ever amid the rich orchards and within
sight of the great Castle of Le Galliard. Let her remember her Hussar in
her dreams, but let her waking days be spent in the world as she finds
it. Meanwhile we pushed such thoughts from our minds, and gave ourselves
up to a sweet companionship, each day complete in itself with never a
thought of the morrow. It is true that there were times when her father,
a stout old gentleman with a face like one of his own apples, and her
mother, a thin anxious woman of the country, gave me hints that they
would wish to be clearer as to my intentions; but in their hearts they
each knew well that Etienne Gerard was a man of honour, and that their
daughter was very safe as well as very happy in his ke