In the mean while François joined the army, and, from a light handsome conscript, he soon became a brave, steady soldier. Attached to the great Northern army, he underwent all the hardships of the campaigns in Poland and Russia, but still he never lost his cheerfulness, for the thought of Mariette kept his heart warm, and even a Russian winter could not freeze him. All through that miserable retreat, he made the best of every thing. As long as he had a good tender piece of saddle, he did not want a dinner; and when he met with a comfortable dead horse to creep into, he found board and lodging combined. His courage and his powers of endurance called upon him, from the first, the eyes of one whose best quality was the impartiality of his recompense. François was rewarded as well as he could be rewarded; but at length, in one of those unfortunate battles by which Napoleon strove in vain to retrieve his fortunes, the young soldier, in the midst of his gallant daring, was desperately wounded in the arm. The star of Napoleon went down, and foreign armies trod the heart of France. Pass we over the rest.--Mutilated, sick, weary, and ragged, François approached his native valley, and doubtful of his reception--for misery makes sad misanthropes--he sought the cottage of Madame Duval. The cottage was gone; and on inquiring for Madame Duval, he was directed to a fine farm-house by the banks of the stream. He thought there must be some mistake, but yet he dragged his heavy limbs thither, and knocked timidly against the door. "Entrez!" cried the good-humoured voice of the old dame. François entered, and unbidden tottered to a chair. Madame Duval gazed on him for a moment, and then rushing to the stairs called loudly, "Come down, Marlette, come down, here is François returned!" Like lightning, Mariette darted down the stairs, saw the soldier's old great-coat, and flew towards it--stopped--gazed on his haggard face, and empty sleeve, and, gasping, fixed her eyes upon his countenance. 'Twas but for a moment she gaz12ed on him thus in silence; but there was no forgetfulness, nor coldness, nor pride about her heart--there was sorrow, and joy, and love, and memory in her very glance. "Oh François, François!" cried she, at length, casting her arms round his neck, "how thou hast suffered!" As she did so, the old great-coat fell back, and on his breast appeared the golden cross of the legion of honour. "_N'importe!_" cried she, as she saw it, "_Voilà ta récompense_." He pressed her fondly to his bosom. "My recompense is here," said he, "my recompense is here!" THE PAINTINGS. A painter must raise his ideas beyond what he sees, and form a model of perfection in his own mind, which is not to be found in reality, but yet such a one as is probable and rational.--RICHARDSON.