CHAPTER III.

"Oh, pleasant land of France!" sings the poet; and a pleasant land it is, especially when, as now, the tall and yellow grain is spreading over its fair plains. As we approach Toul the reapers are at work; the women and children are busy binding or spreading out the sheaves fast as the men can cut them,--all is gay and happy; the sun glowing on the grain makes the whole land seem an El Dorado, and we appear to move in one of the golden dreams of fairyland.

Coming on our river again, which has serpentined along, loitering to water those fruitful plains of "old Lorraine," we find her stream shrunk within its pebbly bed; for the sun has drunk from earth her moisture, and the fire element rules now for the good of man, where the water, moistening the earth, had produced the germ within her bosom.

The contrast of the burning sun and corn makes our dear river seem the cooler and the fresher. All down its course the bathers are wading refreshingly about: in a side-stream, shaded by tall poplars and guarded from eyes inquisitive by rows of piled-up firewood, bathe the women, maids, and girls; in long loose dresses floating, with hair wreathed lightly round their glistening heads, they toss the glittering drops upon each other, and laugh, and scream, and sing: here, hand-in-hand, with tottering gait, they struggle up against the stream, slipping and tumbling at each forward step,--then, the desired point reached, merrily they float down, and the blue tide sparkles with their beauty. Upon the bank are some timidly adventuring their hesitating feet before they plunge into the element; some bind their hair, preparing; others, having bathed, unbind, and the long tresses stream over the fair shoulders: blithely thus they pass the time, and defy the hot old sun upon the river's bank.

A little further, and the green slopes of the fortifications sweep up, and the cathedral towers stand high above the invisible town; beyond the towers is a great flat-topped hill, whose smaller brethren stretch south-wards: in all, the same flatness of the summit is perceptible.

The river makes a great bend after passing Toul; she seems to have come so far, to see the old capital of the Leuci, and finding there little to arrest her progress or detain her steps, she hastens off to hear from her girlish friend, the Meurthe, the history of Nancy, whose walls the latter guards.

Before we go with our Moselle to hear the tales of Nancy, we must first listen to a simple story from French every-day life, near Toul.

ADÈLE AND GUSTAVE.

Once more War stalked the land; again France was aiming, and calling on her sons to fight a foreign foe: but this time her quarrel was a righteous one, for side by side with England she appeared, to guard the weak against the oppression of the strong.

Adèle's heart was beating with anxiety when the day for drawing the fatal numbers had arrived,--those numbers that should determine whether Gustave left her for the battle-field or remained to marry, as had been agreed between them and their parents.

Gustave, however, though he dearly loved his sweet fiancée, loved more that empty trumpet glory, a grand word, and one that chains the hearts of men,--but, like the drum and trumpet, its appropriate adjuncts, only expressing a hollow though a ringing sound.

Such was the glory Gustave dreamt of,--not true glory, not heroism in daily life, not the dying in defence of what we love,--but the rush and the glitter, the pomp and the pride, the excitement and the turmoil of the imagined war.

Little thought he of the days of severe privation, the nights of watching, the constant petty troubles, and the lingering pains brought on by disease engendered by a soldier's life; and still less, it is to be feared, did his mind dwell on the number of Adèles this ruthless war leaves mourning and trembling, while their husbands, friends, and lovers, fight and die afar. He only thought of glory in the abstract; perhaps also of a time when, a high grade won, triumphant he should return and lay his spoil at Adèle's feet.

And he was drawn; his friends begged him to let them purchase a substitute,--he, with his ambition and his love for them combined, would not allow that they should thus impoverish themselves; but, being strongly urged, he turned to where Adèle silently was grieving, and left the choice to her.

Poor Adèle, knowing well his secret heart, and fearing that he would only fret and chafe at home,--perhaps, too, being herself a little tainted with his love for glory,--wept, but said, "Go, then, dear Gustave; never shall a French girl counsel her lover to desert his country."

So, while many a tear and secret prayer are poured out for his welfare, Gustave goes.

The land rings with martial preparations; on all sides is the excitement of the coming war: the eagles and the banners are raised high; and all the air is filled with the grand anthem, "Partant pour la Syrie."