The whole of the Army of the South was drawn8 up on the immense level of the plateau to witness the presentation of the Cross of the Legion of Honor.
It was full noon. The sun shone without a single cloud on the deep, sparkling azure9 of the skies. The troops stretched east and west, north and south, formed up in three sides of one vast, massive square. The battalions10 of Zouaves and of Zephyrs11; the brigade of Chasseurs d’Afrique; the squadrons of Spahis; the regiments12 of Tirailleurs and Turcos; the batteries of Flying Artillery13, were all massed there, reassembled from the various camps and stations of the southern provinces to do honor to the day — to do honor in especial to one by whom the glory of the Tricolor had been saved unstained.
The red, white, and blue of the standards, the brass15 of the eagle guidons; the gray, tossed manes of the chargers; the fierce, swarthy faces of the soldiery; the scarlet16 of the Spahis’ cloaks, and the snowy folds of the Demi–Cavalry17 turbans; the shine of the sloped lances, and the glisten18 of the carbine barrels, fused together in one sea of blended color, flashed into a million prismatic hues20 against the somber21 shadow of the sunburned plains and the clear blue of the skies.
It had been a sanguinary, fruitless, cruel campaign; it had availed nothing, except to drive the Arabs away from some hundred leagues of useless and profitless soil; hundreds of French soldiers had fallen by disease, and drought, and dysentery, as well as by shot and saber, and were unrecorded save on the books of the bureaus; unlamented, save, perhaps, in some little nestling hamlet among the great, green woods of Normandy, or some wooden hut among the olives and the vines of Provence, where some woman, toiling23 till sunset among the fields, or praying before some wayside saint’s stone niche24, would give a thought to the far-off and devouring25 desert that had drawn down beneath its sands the head that used to lie upon her bosom26, cradled as a child’s, or caressed27 as a lover’s.
But the drums rolled out their long, deep thunder over the water; and the shot-torn standards fluttered gayly in the breeze blowing from the west; and the clear, full music of the French bands echoed away to the dim, distant, terrible south, where the desert-scorch28 and the desert-thirst had murdered their bravest and best — and the Army was en fete. En fete, for it did honor to its darling. Cigarette received the Cross.
Mounted on her own little, bright bay, Etoile–Filante, with tricolor ribbons flying from his bridle29 and among the glossy30 fringes of his mane, the Little One rode among her Spahis. A scarlet kepi was set on her thick, silken curls, a tricolor sash was knotted round her waist, her wine-barrel was slung31 on her left hip32, her pistols thrust in her ceinturon, and a light carbine held in her hand with the butt-end resting on her foot. With the sun on her childlike brunette face, her eyes flashing like brown diamonds in the light, and her marvelous horsemanship showing its skill in a hundred daring tricks, the little Friend of the Flag had come hither among her half-savage warriors33, whose red robes surrounded her like a sea of blood.
And on a sea of blood she, the Child of War, had floated; never sinking in that awful flood, but buoyant ever above its darkest waves; catching34 ever some ray of sunlight upon her fair young head, and being oftentimes like a star of hope to those over whom its dreaded36 waters closed. Therefore they loved her, these grim, slaughterous37, and lustful39 warriors, to whom no other thing of womanhood was sacred; by whom in their wrath40 or their crime no friend and no brother was spared, whose law was license41, and whose mercy was murder. They loved her, these brutes42 whose greed was like the tiger’s, whose hate was like the devouring flame; and any who should have harmed a single lock of her curling hair would have had the spears of the African Mussulmans buried by the score in his body. They loved her, with the one fond, triumphant43 love these vultures of the army ever knew; and today they gloried in her with fierce, passionate44 delight. To-day she was to her wild wolves of Africa what Jeanne of Vaucouleurs was to her brethren of France. And today was the crown of her young life.
In the fair, slight, girlish body of the child-soldier there lived a courage as daring as Danton’s, a patriotism46 as pure as Vergniaud’s, a soul as aspiring47 as Napoleon’s. Untaught, untutored, uninspired by poet’s words or patriot45’s bidding, spontaneous as the rising and the blossoming of some wind-sown, sun-fed flower, there was, in this child of the battle, the spirit of genius, the desire to live and to die greatly. To be forever a beloved tradition in the army of her country, to have her name remembered in the roll-call; to be once shrined in the love and honor of France, Cigarette — full of the boundless48 joys of life that knew no weakness and no pain; strong as the young goat, happy as the young lamb, careless as the young flower tossing on the summer breeze — Cigarette would have died contentedly49. And now, living, some measure of this desire had been fulfilled to her, some breath of this imperishable glory had passed over her. France had heard the story of Zaraila; from the Throne a message had been passed to her; what was far beyond all else to her, her own Army of Africa had crowned her, and thanked her, and adored her as with one voice, and wheresoever she passed the wild cheers rang through the roar of musketry, as through the silence of sunny air, and throughout the regiments every sword would have sprung from its scabbard in her defense50 if she had but lifted her hand and said one word —“Zaraila!”
The Army looked on her with delight now. In all that mute, still, immovable mass that stretched out so far, in such gorgeous array, there was not one man whose eyes did not turn on her, whose pride did not center in her — their Little One, who was so wholly theirs, and who had been under the shadow of their Flag ever since the curls, so dark now, had been yellow as wheat in her infancy51. There was not one in all those hosts whose eyes did not turn on her with gratitude52, and reverence53, and delight in her as their own.
Not one; except where her own keen, rapid glance, far-seeing as the hawk54’s, lighted on the squadrons of the Chasseurs d’Afrique, and found among their ranks one face, grave, weary, meditative55, with a gaze that seemed looking far away from the glittering scene to a grave that lay unseen leagues beyond, behind the rocky ridge56.
“He is thinking of the dead man, not of me,” thought Cigarette; and the first taint57 of bitterness entered into her cup of joy and triumph, as such bitterness enters into most cups that are drunk by human lips. A whole army was thinking of her, and of her alone; and there was a void in her heart, a thorn in her crown, because one among that mighty58 mass — one only — gave her presence little heed59, but thought rather of a lonely tomb among the desolation of the plains.
But she had scarce time even for that flash of pain to quiver in impotent impatience60 through her. The trumpets61 sounded, the salvoes of artillery pealed62 out, the lances and the swords were carried up in salute63; on the ground rode the Marshal of France, who represented the imperial will and presence, surrounded by his staff, by generals of division and brigade, by officers of rank, and by some few civilian64 riders. An aid galloped65 up to her where she stood with the corps66 of her Spahis and gave her his orders. The Little One nodded carelessly, and touched Etoile–Filante with the prick67 of the spur. Like lightning the animal bounded forth68 from the ranks, rearing and plunging69, and swerving70 from side to side, while his rider, with exquisite71 grace and address, kept her seat like the little semi-Arab that she was, and with a thousand curves and bounds cantered down the line of the gathered troops, with the west wind blowing from the far-distant sea, and fanning her bright cheeks till they wore the soft, scarlet flush of the glowing japonica flower. And all down the ranks a low, hoarse72, strange, longing73 murmur74 went — the buzz of the voices which, but that discipline suppressed them, would have broken out in worshiping acclamations.
As carelessly as though she reined75 up before the Cafe door of the As de Pique76, she arrested her horse before the great Marshal who was the impersonation of authority, and put her hand up in salute, with her saucy77, wayward laugh. He was the impersonation of that vast, silent, awful, irresponsible power which, under the name of the Second Empire, stretched its hand of iron across the sea, and forced the soldiers of France down into nameless graves, with the desert sand choking their mouths; but he was no more to Cigarette than any drummer-boy that might be present. She had all the contempt for the laws of rank of your thorough inborn78 democrat79, all the gay, insouciant80 indifference81 to station of the really free and untrammeled nature; and, in her sight, a dying soldier, lying quietly in a ditch to perish of shot-wounds without a word or a moan, was greater than all the Marshals glittering in their stars and orders. As for impressing her, or hoping to impress her, with rank — pooh! You might as well have bid the sailing clouds pause in their floating passage because they came between royalty82 and the sun. All the sovereigns of Europe would have awed83 Cigarette not one whit14 more than a gathering84 of muleteers. “Allied sovereigns — bah!” she would have said, “what did that mean in ‘15? A chorus of magpies85 chattering86 over one stricken eagle!”
So she reined up before the Marshal and his staff, and the few great personages whom Algeria could bring around them, as indifferently as she had many a time reined up before a knot of grim Turcos, smoking under a barrack-gate. He was nothing to her: it was her army that crowned her.
Nevertheless, despite her gay contempt for rank, her heart beat fast under its gold-laced packet as she reined up Etoile and saluted87. In that hot, clear sun all the eyes of that immense host were fastened on her, and the hour of her longing desire was come at last. France had recognized that she had done greatly. There was a group before her, large and brilliant, but at them Cigarette never looked; what she saw were the faces of her “children,” of men who, in the majority, were old enough to be her grandsires, who had been with her through so many darksome hours, and whose black and rugged88 features lightened and grew tender whenever they looked upon their Little One. For the moment she felt giddy with sweet, fiery89 joy; they were here to behold90 her thanked in the name of France.
The Marshal, in advance of all his staff, doffed91 his plumed92 hat and bowed to his saddle-bow as he faced her. He knew her well by sight, this pretty child of his Army of Africa, who had, before then, suppressed mutiny like a veteran, and led the charge like a Murat — this kitten with a lion’s heart, this humming-bird with an eagle’s swoop93.
“Mademoiselle,” he commenced, while his voice, well skilled to such work, echoed to the farthest end of the long lines of troops, “I have the honor to discharge today the happiest duty of my life. In conveying to you the expression of the Emperor’s approval of your noble conduct in the present campaign, I express the sentiments of the whole Army. Your action on the day of Zaraila was as brilliant in conception as it was great in execution; and the courage you displayed was only equaled by your patriotism. May the soldiers of many wars remember and emulate94 you. In the name of France, I thank you. In the name of the Emperor, I bring to you the Cross of the Legion of Honor.”
As the brief and soldierly words rolled down the ranks of the listening regiments, he stooped forward from the saddle and fastened the red ribbon on her breast; while from the whole gathered mass, watching, hearing, waiting breathlessly to give their tribute of applause to their darling also, a great shout rose as with one voice, strong, full, echoing over and over again across the plains in thunder that joined her name with the name of France and of Napoleon, and hurled95 it upward in fierce, tumultuous, idolatrous love to those cruel, cloudless skies that shone above the dead. She was their child, their treasure, their idol96, their young leader in war, their young angel in suffering; she was all their own, knowing with them one common mother — France. Honor to her was honor to them; they gloried with heart and soul in this bright, young fearless life that had been among them ever since her infant feet had waded97 through the blood of slaughter38-fields, and her infant lips had laughed to see the tricolor float in the sun above the smoke of battle.
And as she heard, her face became very pale, her large eyes grew dim and very soft, her mirthful mouth trembled with the pain of a too intense joy. She lifted her head, and all the unutterable love she bore her country and her people thrilled through the music of her voice.
“Francais!”
That was all she said; in that one word of their common nationality she spoke98 alike to the Marshal of the Empire and to the conscript of the ranks. “Francais!” That one title made them all equal in her sight; whoever claimed it was honored in her eyes, and was precious to her heart, and when she answered them that it was nothing, this thing which they glorified99 in her, she answered but what seemed the simple truth in her code. She would have thought it “nothing” to have perished by shot, or steel, or flame, in day-long torture for that one fair sake of France.
Vain in all else, and to all else wayward, here she was docile100 and submissive as the most patient child; here she deemed the greatest and the hardest thing that she could ever do far less than all that she would willingly have done. And as she looked upon the host whose thousand and ten thousand voices rang up to the noonday sun in her homage101, and in hers alone, a light like a glory beamed upon her face that for once was white and still and very grave — none who saw her face then ever forgot that look.
In that moment she touched the full sweetness of a proud and pure ambition, attained102 and possessed103 in all its intensity104, in all its perfect splendor105. In that moment she knew that divine hour which, born of a people’s love and of the impossible desires of genius in its youth, comes to so few human lives — knew that which was known to the young Napoleon when, in the hot hush106 of the nights of July, France welcomed the Conqueror107 of Italy. And in that moment there was an intense stillness; the Army crowned as its bravest and its best a woman-child in the springtime of her girlhood.
Then Cigarette laid her hand on the Cross that had been the dream of her years since she had first seen the brazen108 glisten of the eagles above her wondering eyes of infancy, and loosened it from above her heart, and stretched her hand out with it to the great Chief.
“M. le Marshal, this is not for me.”
“Not for you! The Emperor bestows109 it ——”
Cigarette saluted with her left hand, still stretching to him the decoration with the other.
“It is not for me — not while I wear it unjustly.”
“Unjustly! What is your meaning? My child, you talk strangely. The gifts of the Empire are not given lightly.”
“No; and they shall not be given unfairly. Listen.” The color had flushed back, bright and radiant, to her cheeks; her eyes glanced with their old daring; her contemptuous, careless eloquence110 returned, and her voice echoed, every note distinct as the notes of a trumpet-call, down the ranks of the listening soldiery. “Hark you! The Emperor sends me this Cross; France thanks me; the Army applauds me. Well, I thank them, one and all. Cigarette was never yet ungrateful; it is the sin of the coward. But I say I will not take what is unjustly mine, and this preference to me is unjust. I saved the day at Zaraila? Oh, ha! And how? — by scampering111 fast on my mare112, and asking for a squadron or two of my Spahis — that was all. If I had not done so much — I, a soldier of Africa — why, I should have deserved to have been shot like a cat — bah! should I not? It was not I who saved the battle. Who was it? It was a Chasseur d’Afrique, I tell you. What did he do? Why, this. When his officers were all gone down, he rallied, and gathered his handful of men, and held the ground with them all through the day — two — four — six — eight — ten hours in the scorch of the sun. The Arbicos, even were forced to see that was grand; they offered him life if he would yield. All his answer was to form his few horsemen into line as well as he could for the slain113, and charge — a last charge in which he knew not one of his troop could live through the swarms114 of the Arabs around them. That I saw with my own eyes. I and my Spahis just reached him in time. Then who is it that saved the day, I pray you? — I, who just ran a race for fun and came in at the fag-end of the thing, or this man who lived the whole day through in the carnage, and never let go of the guidon, but only thought how to die greatly? I tell you, the Cross is his, and not mine. Take it back, and give it where it is due.”
The Marshal listened, half amazed, half amused — half prepared to resent the insult to the Empire and to discipline, half disposed to award that submission116 to her caprice which all Algeria gave to Cigarette.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, with a grave smile, “the honors of the Empire are not to be treated thus. But who is this man for whom you claim so much?”
“Who is he?” echoed Cigarette, with all her fiery disdain117 for authority ablaze118 once more like brandy in a flame. “Oh, ha! Napoleon Premier119 would not have left his Marshals to ask that! He is the finest soldier in Africa, if it be possible for one to be finer than another where all are so great. They know that; they pick him out for all the dangerous missions. But the Black Hawk hates him, and so France never hears the truth of all that he does. I tell you, if the Emperor had seen him as I saw him on the field of Zaraila, his would have been the Cross, and not mine.”
“You are generous, my Little One.”
“No; I am just.”
Her brave eyes glowed in the sun, her voice rang as clear as a bell. She raised her head proudly and glanced down the line of her army. She was just — that was the one virtue120 in Cigarette’s creed121 without which you were poltroon122, or liar123, or both.
She alone knew what neglect, what indifference, what unintentional, but none the less piercing, insults she had to avenge124; she alone knew of that pain with which she had heard the name of his patrician125 rival murmured in delirious126 slumber127 after Zaraila; she alone knew of that negligent128 caress of farewell with which her lips had been touched as lightly as his hand caressed a horse’s neck or a bird’s wing. But these did not weigh with her one instant to make her withhold129 the words that she deemed deserved; these did not balance against him one instant the pique and the pain of her own heart, in opposition130 to the due of his courage and his fortitude131.
Cigarette was rightly proud of her immunity132 from the weakness of her sex; she had neither meanness nor selfishness.
The Marshal listened gravely, the groups around him smilingly. If it had been any other than the Little One, it would have been very different; as it was, all France and all Algeria knew Cigarette.
“What may be the name of this man whom you praise so greatly, my pretty one?” he asked her.
“That I cannot tell, M. le Marshal. All I know is he calls himself here Louis Victor.”
“Ah! I have heard much of him. A fine soldier, but —”
“A fine soldier without a ‘but,’” interrupted Cigarette, with rebellious133 indifference to the rank of the great man she corrected, “unless you add, ‘but never done justice by his Chief.’”
As she spoke, her eyes for the first time glanced over the various personages who were mingled134 among the staff of the Marshal, his invited guests for the review upon the plains. The color burned more duskily in her cheek, her eyes glittered with hate; she could have bitten her little, frank, witty135 tongue through and through for having spoken the name of that Chasseur who was yonder, out of earshot, where the lance-heads of his squadrons glistened136 against the blue skies. She saw a face which, though seen but once before, she knew instantly again — the face of “Milady.” And she saw it change color, and lose its beautiful hue19, and grow grave and troubled as the last words passed between herself and the French Marshal.
“Ah! can she feel?” wondered Cigarette, who, with a common error of such vehement137 young democrats138 as herself, always thought that hearts never ached in the Patrician Order, and thought so still when she saw the listless, proud tranquility return, not again to be altered, over the perfect features that she watched with so much violent, instinctive139 hate. “Did she heed his name, or did she not? What are their faces in that Order? Only alabaster140 masks!” mused115 the child. And her heart sank, and bitterness mingled with her joy, and the soul that had a moment before been so full of all pure and noble emotion, all high and patriotic141 and idealic thought, was dulled and soiled and clogged142 with baser passions. So ever do unworthy things drag the loftier nature earthward.
She scarcely heard the Marshal’s voice as it addressed her with a kindly144 indulgence, as to a valued soldier and a spoiled pet in one.
“Have no fear, Little One. Victor’s claims are not forgotten, though we may await our own time to investigate and reward them. No one ever served the Empire and remained unrewarded. For yourself, wear your Cross proudly. It glitters above not only the bravest, but the most generous, heart in the service.”
None had ever won such warm words from the redoubted chief, whose speech was commonly rapid and stern as his conduct of war, and who usually recompensed his men for fine service rather with a barrel of brandy to season their rations145 than with speeches of military eulogium. But it failed to give delight to Cigarette. She felt resting upon her the calm gaze of those brilliant azure eyes; and she felt, as she had done once in her rhododendron shelter, as though she were some very worthless, rough, rude, untaught, and coarse little barbarian146, who was, at best, but fit for a soldier’s jest and a soldier’s riot in the wild license of the barrack room or the campaigning tent. It was only the eyes of this woman, whom he loved, which ever had the power to awaken147 that humiliation148, that impatience of herself, that consciousness of something lost and irrevocable, which moved her now.
Cigarette was proud with an intense pride of all her fiery liberty from every feminine trammel, of all her complete immunity from every scruple149 and every fastidiousness of her sex. But, for once, within sight of that noble and haughty150 beauty, a poignant151, cruel, wounding sense of utter inferiority, of utter debasement, possessed and weighed down her lawless and indomitable spirit. Some vague, weary feeling that her youth was fair enough in the sight of men, but that her older years would be very dark, very terrible, came on her even in this hour of the supreme152 joy, the supreme triumph of her life. Even her buoyant and cloudless nature did not escape that mortal doom153 which pursues and poisons every ambition in the very instant of its full fruition.
The doubt, the pain, the self-mistrust were still upon her as she saluted once again and paced down the ranks of the assembled divisions; while every lance was carried, every sword lifted, every bayonet presented to the order as she went; greeted as though she were an empress, for that cross which glittered on her heart, for that courage wherewith she had saved the Tricolor.
The great shouts rent the air; the clash of the lowered arms saluted her; the drums rolled out upon the air; the bands of the regiments of Africa broke into the fiery rapture154 of a war-march; the folds of the battle-torn flags were flung out wider and wider on the breeze. Gray-bearded men gazed on her with tears of delight upon their grizzled lashes155, and young boys looked at her as the children of France once gazed upon Jeanne d’Arc, where Cigarette, with the red ribbon on her breast, road slowly in the noonday light along the line of troops.
It was the paradise of which she had dreamed; it was the homage of the army she adored; it was one of those hours in which life is transfigured, exalted156, sublimated157 into a divine glory by the pure love of a people; and yet in that instant, so long, so passionately158 desired, the doom of all genius was hers. There was the stealing pain of a weary unrest amid the sunlit and intoxicating159 joy of satisfied aspiration160.
The eyes of Venetia Corona161 followed her with something of ineffable162 pity. “Poor little unsexed child!” she thought. “How pretty and how brave she is! and — how true to him!”
The Seraph163, beside her in the group around the flagstaff, smiled and turned to her.
“I said that little Amazon was in love with this fellow Victor; how loyally she stood up for him. But I dare say she would be as quick to send a bullet through him, if he should ever displease164 her.”
“Why? Where there is so much courage there must be much nobility, even in the abandonment of such a life as hers.”
“Ah, you do not know what half-French, half-African natures are. She would die for him just now very likely; but if he ever forsake165 her, she will be quite as likely to run her dirk through him.”
“Forsake her! What is he to her?”
There was a certain impatience in the tone, and something of contemptuous disbelief, that made her brother look at her in wonder.
“What on earth can the loves of a camp concern her?” he thought, as he answered: “Nothing that I know of. But this charming little tigress is very fond of him. By the way, can you point the man out to me? I am curious to see him.”
“Impossible! There are ten thousand faces, and the cavalry squadrons are so far off.”
She spoke with indifference, but she grew a little pale as she did so, and the eyes that had always met his so frankly166, so proudly, were turned from him. He saw it, and it troubled him with a trouble the more perplexed167 that he could assign to himself no reason for it. That it could be caused by any interest felt for a Chasseur d’Afrique by the haughtiest168 lady in all Europe would have been too preposterous169 and too insulting a supposition for it ever to occur to him. And he did not dream the truth — the truth that it was her withholding170, for the first time in all her life, any secret from him which caused her pain; that it was the fear lest he should learn that his lost friend was living thus which haunted her with that unspoken anxiety.
They were traveling here with the avowed171 purpose of seeing the military operations of the south; she could not have prevented him from accepting the Marshal’s invitation to the review of the African Army without exciting comment and interrogation; she was forced to let events take their own course, and shape themselves as they would; yet an apprehension172, a dread35, that she could hardly form into distant shape, pursued her. It weighed on her with an infinite oppression — this story which she alone had had revealed to her; this life whose martyrdom she alone had seen, and whose secret even she could not divine. It affected173 her more powerfully, it grieved her more keenly, than she herself knew. It brought her close, for the only time in her experience, to a life absolutely without a hope, and one that accepted the despair of such a destiny with silent resignation; it moved her as nothing less, as nothing feebler or of more common type could ever have found power to do. There were a simplicity174 and a greatness in the mute, unpretentious, almost unconscious, heroism175 of this man, who, for the sheer sake of that which he deemed the need of “honor,” accepted the desolation of his entire future, which attracted her as nothing else had ever done, which made her heart ache when she looked at the glitter of the Franco–Arab squadrons, where their sloped lances glistened in the sun, with a pang176 that she had never felt before. Moreover, as the untutored, half-barbaric, impulsive177 young heart of Cigarette had felt, so felt the high-bred, cultured, world-wise mind of Venetia Corona — that this man’s exile was no shame, but some great sacrifice; a sacrifice whose bitterness smote178 her with its own suffering, whose mystery wearied her with its own perplexity, as she gazed down the line of the regiments to where the shot-bruised Eagle of Zaraila gleamed above the squadrons of the Chasseurs d’Afrique.
He, in his place among those squadrons, knew her, though so far distant, and endured the deadliest trial of patience which had come to him while beneath the yoke179 of African discipline. To leave his place was to incur180 the heaviest punishment; yet he could almost have risked that sentence rather than wait there. Only seven days had gone by since he had been with her under the roof of the caravanserai; but it seemed to him as if these days had aged181 him more than all the twelve years that he had passed upon the Algerian soil. He was thankful that the enmity of his relentless182 chief had placed such shadow of evil report between his name and the rewards due to his service, that even the promised recognition of his brilliant actions at Zaraila and elsewhere was postponed183 a while on the plea of investigation184. He was thankful that the honors which the whole Army expected for him, and which the antagonism185 of Chateauroy would soon be powerless to avert186 any longer from their meet bestowal187, did not force him to go up there in the scorching188 light of the noon, and take those honors as a soldier of France, under the eyes of the man he loved, of the woman he adored.
As it was, he sat motionless as a statue in his saddle, and never looked westward189 to where the tricolors of the flagstaff drooped190 above the head of Venetia Corona.
Thus, he never heard the gallant191 words spoken in his behalf by the loyal lips that he had not cared to caress. As she passed down the ranks, indeed, he saw and smiled on his little champion; but the smile had only a weary kindness of recognition in it and it wounded Cigarette more than though he had struck her through the breast with his lance.
The moment that he had dreaded came; the troops broke up and marched past the representative of their empire, the cavalry at the head of the divisions. He passed among the rest; he raised his lance so that it hid his features as much as its slender shaft192 could do; the fair and noble face on which his glance flashed was very pale and very grave; the one beside her was sunny and frank, and unchanged by the years that had drifted by, and its azure eyes, so like her own, sweeping193 over the masses with all the swift, keen appreciation194 of a military glance, were so eagerly noting carriage, accouterment, harness, horses, that they never once fell upon the single soldier whose heart so unutterably longed for, even while it dreaded, his recognition.
Venetia gave a low, quick breath of mingled pain and relief as the last of the Chasseurs passed by. The Seraph started, and turned his head.
“My darling! Are you not well?”
“Perfectly!”
“You do not look so; and you forgot now to point me out this special trooper. I forgot him too.”
“He goes there — the tenth from here.”
Her brother looked; it was too late.
“He is taller than the others. That is all I can see now that his back is turned. I will seek him out when —”
“Do no such thing!”
“And why? It was your own request that I inquired —”
“Think me changeable as you will. Do nothing to seek him, to inquire for him —”
“But why? A man who at Zaraila —”
“Never mind! Do not let it be said you notice a Chasseur d’Afrique at my instance.”
The color flushed her face as she spoke; it was with the scorn, the hatred195, of this shadow of an untruth with which she for the sole time in life soiled her lips. He, noting it, shook himself restlessly in his saddle. If he had not known her to be the noblest and the haughtiest of all the imperial women who had crowned his house with their beauty and their honor, he could have believed that some interest, degrading as disgrace, moved her toward this foreign trooper, and caused her altered wishes and her silence. As it was, so much insult to her as would have existed in the mere196 thought was impossible to him; yet it left him annoyed and vaguely197 disquieted198.
The subject did not wholly fade from his mind throughout the entertainments that succeeded to the military inspection199 in the great white tent glistening200 with gilded201 bees and brightened with tricolor standards which the ingenuity202 of the soldiers of the administration had reared as though by magic amid the barrenness of the country, and in which the skill of camp cooks served up a delicate banquet. The scene was very picturesque203, and all the more so for the widespread, changing panorama204 without the canvas city of the camp. It was chiefly designed to pleasure the great lady who had come so far southward; all the resources which could be employed were exhausted205 to make the occasion memorable206 and worthy143 of the dignity of the guests whom the Viceroy of the Empire delighted to honor. Yet she, seated there on his right hand, where the rich skins and cashmeres and carpets were strewn on a dais, saw in reality little save a confused blending of hues, and metals, and orders, and weapons, and snowy beards, and olive faces, and French elegance207 and glitter fused with the grave majesty208 of Arab pomp. For her thoughts were not with the scene around her, but with the soldier who was without in that teeming209 crowd of tents, who lived in poverty, and danger, and the hard slavery of unquestioning obedience210, and asked only to be as one dead to all who had known and loved him in his youth. It was in vain that she repelled211 the memory; it usurped212 her, and would not be displaced.
Meantime, in another part of the camp, the heroine of Zaraila was feasted, not less distinctively213, if more noisily and more familiarly, by the younger officers of the various regiments. La Cigarette, many a time before the reigning214 spirit of suppers and carouses215, was banqueted with all the eclat216 that befitted that cross which sparkled on her blue and scarlet vest. High throned on a pyramid of knapsacks, canteens, and rugs, toasted a thousand times in all brandies and red wines that the stores would yield, sung of in improvised217 odes that were chanted by voices which might have won European fame as tenor218 or as basso, caressed and sued with all the rapid, fiery, lightly-come and lightly-go love of the camp, with twice a hundred flashing, darkling eyes bent219 on her in the hot admiration220 that her vain, coquette spirit found delight in, ruling as she would with jest, and caprice, and command, and bravado221 all these men who were terrible as tigers to their foes222, the Little One reigned223 alone; and — like many who have reigned before her — found lead in her scepter, dross224 in her diadem225, satiety226 in her kingdom.
When it was over, this banquet that was all in her honor, and that three months before would have been a paradise to her, she shook herself free of the scores of arms outstretched to keep her captive, and went out into the night alone. She did not know what she ailed22, but she was restless, oppressed, weighed down with a sense of dissatisfied weariness that had never before touched the joyous227 and elastic228 nature of the child of France.
And this, too, in the moment when the very sweetest and loftiest of her ambitions was attained! When her hand wandered to that decoration on her heart which had been ever in her sight what the crown of wild olive and the wreath of summer grasses were to the youths and to the victors of the old, dead classic years! As she stood in solitude229 under the brilliancy of the stars, tears, unfamiliar230 and unbidden, rose in her eyes as they gazed over the hosts around her.
“How they live only for the slaughter! How they perish like the beasts of the field!” she thought. Upon her, as on the poet or the patriot who could translate and could utter the thought as she could not, there weighed the burden of that heart-sick consciousness of the vanity of the highest hope, the futility231 of the noblest effort, to bring light into the darkness of the suffering, toiling, blind throngs232 of human life.
“There is only one thing worth doing — to die greatly!” thought the aching heart of the child-soldier, unconsciously returning to the only end that the genius and the greatness of Greece could find as issue to the terrible jest, the mysterious despair, of all existence.
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1
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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2
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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3
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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4
bleach
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| vt.使漂白；vi.变白；n.漂白剂 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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6
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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8
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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10
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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11
zephyrs
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| n.和风，微风( zephyr的名词复数 ) | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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13
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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14
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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15
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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16
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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17
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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18
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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19
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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21
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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22
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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23
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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24
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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25
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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26
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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27
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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29
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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30
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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31
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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32
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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33
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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34
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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35
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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36
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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37
slaughterous
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| adj.好杀戮的 | |
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38
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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39
lustful
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| a.贪婪的；渴望的 | |
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40
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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41
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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42
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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43
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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44
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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45
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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46
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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47
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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48
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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49
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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50
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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51
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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52
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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53
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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54
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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55
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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56
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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57
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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58
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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59
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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60
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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61
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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62
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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64
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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65
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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66
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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67
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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68
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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69
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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70
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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71
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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72
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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73
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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74
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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75
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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76
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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77
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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78
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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79
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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80
insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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81
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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82
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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83
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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85
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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86
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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87
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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88
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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89
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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90
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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91
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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93
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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94
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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95
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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96
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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97
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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99
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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100
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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101
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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102
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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103
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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104
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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105
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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106
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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107
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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108
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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109
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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111
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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112
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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113
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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114
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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115
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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116
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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117
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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118
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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119
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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120
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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121
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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122
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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123
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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124
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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125
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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126
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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127
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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128
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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129
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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130
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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131
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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132
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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133
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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134
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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135
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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136
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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138
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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139
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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140
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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141
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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142
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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143
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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144
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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145
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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146
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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147
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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148
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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149
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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150
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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151
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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152
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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153
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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154
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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155
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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156
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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157
sublimated
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| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
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158
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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159
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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160
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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161
corona
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| n.日冕 | |
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162
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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163
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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164
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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165
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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166
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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167
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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168
haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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169
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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170
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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171
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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172
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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173
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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174
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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175
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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176
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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177
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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178
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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179
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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180
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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181
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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182
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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183
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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184
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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185
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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186
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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187
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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188
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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189
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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190
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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192
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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193
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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194
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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195
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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196
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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197
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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198
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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200
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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201
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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202
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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203
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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204
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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205
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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206
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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207
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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208
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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209
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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210
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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211
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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212
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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213
distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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214
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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215
carouses
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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216
eclat
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| n.显赫之成功，荣誉 | |
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217
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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218
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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219
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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220
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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221
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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222
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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223
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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224
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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225
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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226
satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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227
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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228
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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229
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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230
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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231
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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232
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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