louis which his father had put into his hand at starting. Finally,
when twenty-three years of age, and without other fortune than his
fine presence and that southern beauty which, when it reaches
perfection, may be called sublime (of which Antinous, the favorite of
Adrian, is the type), Charles resolved to wager his Provencal audacity
--taking it, like many another youth, for a vocation--on the red cloth
of war. On his way to the base of the army at Nice he met the Breton.
The pair became intimate, partly from the contrasts in their
characters; they drank from the same cup at the wayside torrents,
broke the same biscuit, and were both made sergeants at the peace
which followed the battle of Marengo.

When the war recommenced, Charles Mignon was promoted into the cavalry
and lost sight of his comrade. In 1812 the last of the Mignon de La
Bastie was an officer of the Legion of honor and major of a regiment
of cavalry. Taken prisoner by the Russians he was sent, like so many
others, to Siberia. He made the journey in company with another
prisoner, a poor lieutenant, in whom he recognized his old friend Jean
Dumay, brave, neglected, undecorated, unhappy, like a million of other
woollen epaulets, rank and file--that canvas of men on which Napoleon
painted the picture of the Empire. While in Siberia, the
lieutenant-colonel, to kill time, taught writing and arithmetic to the
Breton, whose early education had seemed a useless waste of time to Pere
Scevola. Charles found in the old comrade of his marching days one of
those rare hearts into which a man can pour his griefs while telling
his joys.

The young Provencal had met the fate which attends all handsome
bachelors. In 1804, at Frankfort on the Main, he was adored by Bettina
Wallenrod, only daughter of a banker, and he married her with all the