Under such implacable despotism Charles, whose
constitution was delicate, grew up pale and thin, with beautiful eyes,
inordinately large and clear, shining in his white, pinched face.
During the long hours of silence Mme Burle dwelt continuously upon one
and the same idea: she had been disappointed in her son. This thought
sufficed to occupy her mind, and under its influence she would live her
whole life over again, from the birth of her son, whom she had pictured
rising amid glory to the highest rank, till she came down to mean and
narrow garrison life, the dull, monotonous existence of nowadays, that
stranding in the post of a quartermaster, from which Burle would never
rise and in which he seemed to sink more and more heavily. And yet his
first efforts had filled her with pride, and she had hoped to see
her dreams realized. Burle had only just left Saint-Cyr when he
distinguished himself at the battle of Solferino, where he had captured
a whole battery of the enemy's artillery with merely a handful of men.
For this feat he had won the cross; the papers had recorded his heroism,
and he had become known as one of the bravest soldiers in the army. But
gradually the hero had grown stout, embedded in flesh, timorous, lazy
and satisfied.
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