He would never see his old Leonie again. She had a capable
little head and plenty of tact; she would know how to manage the fellow,
to be sure. He was easy about her happiness, but he felt ousted from
the first place in her affection which had been his ever since the
girl could speak. And a melancholy regret of the days of his childhood
settled upon Captain D'Hubert, third aide-de-camp to the Prince of
Ponte-Corvo.
He pushed aside the letter of congratulation he had begun to write, as
in duty bound but without pleasure. He took a fresh sheet of paper
and wrote: "This is my last will and testament." And, looking at these
words, he gave himself up to unpleasant reflection; a presentiment
that he would never see the scenes of his childhood overcame Captain
D'Hubert. He jumped up, pushing his chair back, yawned leisurely, which
demonstrated to himself that he didn't care anything for presentiments,
and, throwing himself on the bed, went to sleep. During the night he
shivered from time to time without waking up. In the morning he rode
out of town between his two seconds, talking of indifferent things and
looking right and left with apparent detachment into the heavy morning
mists, shrouding the flat green fields bordered by hedges. He leaped a
ditch, and saw the forms of many mounted men moving in the low fog. "We
are to fight before a gallery," he muttered bitterly.
His seconds were rather concerned at the state of the atmosphere,
but presently a pale and sympathetic sun struggled above the vapours.
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