"
General Raimbaut went off to headquarters in some haste, a thorough
convert to Colonel Dujardin's opinion. Meantime the colonel went
slowly to his tent. At the mouth of it a corporal, who was also his
body-servant, met him, saluted, and asked respectfully if there were any
orders.
"A few minutes' repose, Francois, that is all. Do not let me be
disturbed for an hour."
"Attention!" cried Francois. "Colonel wants to sleep."
The tent was sentinelled, and Dujardin was alone with the past.
Then had the fools, that took (as fools will do) deep sorrow for
sullenness, seen the fiery soldier droop, and his wan face fall into
haggard lines, and his martial figure shrink, and heard his stout heart
sigh! He took a letter from his bosom: it was almost worn to pieces. He
had read it a thousand times, yet he read it again. A part of the sweet
sad words ran thus:--
"We must bow. We can never be happy together on earth; let us make
Heaven our friend. This is still left us,--not to blush for our love; to
do our duty, and to die."
"How tender, but how firm," thought Camille.
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