“Leave him to me, Monsieur,” was the only reply I could obtain; and the utmost favor he would grant was the permission to take leave of my poor friend before I started. Amid all the sufferings of his malady, I found the good priest dwelling in his mind on the scene with the vivandière,--which, perhaps, from the impressionable character of a sick man's temperament, had entirely filled his thoughts; and thus he wandered from the subject of his sorrows to hers, with scarcely a transition between them. When I mentioned the necessity of our parting, he seemed to feel it more on my account than his own. “I wished to have reached Paris with you,” he repeated over and over. “It was not impossible I could have arranged your return home. But you must go down to Sèvres,--the priest there, whoever he may be, will know of me; tell him everything without reserve. I am too ill to write, but if I get better soon--Well, well; that poor girl is an orphan too; and Alphonse was an orphan. With what misery have we struggled in France since this man has ruled our destinies! how have the crimes of a people brought their retribution to every heart and every home!--none too low, none too humble, to feel them. Leave this land; no blessing can rest upon it now. Poor thing! how worthy of a better lot she is! If this same officer should know,--it is not impossible. But, why do I say this? No, no; you'll never meet him now.” He continued to mutter thus some broken and disjointed sentences, half-aloud, for some minutes, apparently unconscious of my presence. “He was in a regiment of the Guard. Alas! she told me which, but I forget it now; but his name, surely I remember his name! Well, well, it is a sad story. Adieu, my dear child! good-by! We have each a weary road before us; but my journey, although the longest, will be soonest accomplished. Do not forget my words to you. Your own country, and your country's cause, above every other; all else is the hireling's part. The sense of duty alone can sustain a man in the trials which fit him for this world, or that better one which is to follow. Adieu!” He threw his arm around me as he said this, and leaned exhausted and faint upon my shoulder. The few who journey through life with little sympathy or friendship from their fellow-men, may know how it rent my heart to part with one to whom I clung every hour closer; my throat swelled and throbbed, and I could only articulate a faint good-by as we parted. As the door was closing, I heard his voice again. “Yes, I have it now; I remember it well,--'Le Capitaine Burke.'” I started in amazement, for during all our intercourse he had never asked nor had I told my name, and I stood unable to speak; when he continued,--“You 'll think of the name,--she said, too, he was on the staff,--'Burke!' Poor girl!”