“So,” rejoined the officer, angrily, “this fellow has been writing letters, it would seem, reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your epistolary tastes are like to cost you dearly, my lad; it had been better for you if writing had been omitted in your education. Reconduct the others, sergeant, they are respited; this fellow alone is to undergo his sentence.” The other two prisoners gave a short and simultaneous cry of joy as they fell back, and I stood alone in front of the escort. “Parbleu! he has forgotten the signature,” said the adjutant, casting his eye over the paper: “he was chattering and laughing all the time, with the pen in his hand, and I suppose fancied that he had signed it.” “Nathalie was there, perhaps,” said the aid-de-camp, significantly. “She was, and I never saw her looking better. It’s something like eight years since I saw her last; and I vow she seems not only handsomer, but fresher and more youthful to-day than then.” “Where is she going; have you heard?” “Who can tell? Her passport is like a firman; she may travel where she pleases. The rumor of the day says Italy.” “I thought she looked provoked at Moreau’s absence; it seemed like want of attention on his part, a lack of courtesy she’s not used to.” “Very true; and her reception of Berthier was any thing but gracious, although he certainly displayed all his civilities in her behalf.” “Strange days we live in!” sighed the other, “when a man’s promotion hangs upon the favorable word of a—” “Hush! take care! be cautious!” whispered the other. “Let us not forget this poor fellow’s business. How are you to settle it? Is the signature of any consequence? The whole sentence all is right and regular.” “I shouldn’t like to omit the signature,” said the other, cautiously; “it looks like carelessness, and might involve us in trouble hereafter.” “Then we must wait some time, for I see they are gone to dinner.” “So I perceive,” replied the former, as he lighted his cigar, and seated himself on a bank. “You may let the prisoner sit down, sergeant, and leave his hands free; he looks wearied and exhausted.” I was too weak to speak, but I looked my gratitude; and sitting down upon the grass, covered my face, and wept heartily. Although quite close to where the officers sat together chatting and jesting, I heard little or nothing of what they said. Already the things of life had ceased to have any hold upon me; and I could have heard of the greatest victory, or listened to a story of the most fatal defeat, without the slightest interest or emotion. An occasional word or a name would strike upon my ear, but leave no impression nor any memory behind it. The military band was performing various marches and opera airs before the tent where the general dined, and in the melody, softened by distance, I felt a kind of calm and sleepy repose that lulled me into a species of ecstasy.