At the bottom of the letter she even had placed her signature, learned by heart, but trembling like a school-girl's scribble: "Widow Moan." "Widow Moan!" With a quick spontaneous movement he carried the paper to his lips and kissed the poor name, as a sacred relic.

For this letter arrived at a critical moment of his life; to-morrow at dawn, he was to set out for the battlefield.
It was in the middle of April; Bac-Ninh and Hong-Hoa had just been taken.

There was no great warfare going on in Tonquin, yet the reinforcements arriving were not sufficient; sailors were taken from all the ships to make up the deficit in the corps already disembarked.
Sylvestre, who had languished so long in the midst of cruises and blockades, had just been selected with some others to fill up the vacancies.
It is true that now peace was spoken of, but something told them that they yet would disembarck in good time to fight a bit.

They packed their bags, made all their other preparations, and said good-bye, and all the evening through they strolled about with their unfortunate mates who had to remain, feeling much grander and prouder than they.

Each in his own way showed his impression at this departure--some were grave and serious, others exuberant and talkative.
Sylvestre was very quiet and thoughtful, though impatient; only, when they looked at him, his smile seemed to say, "Yes, I'm one of the fighting party, and huzza! the action is for to-morrow morning!" Of gunshots and battle he formed but an incomplete idea as yet; but they fascinated him, for he came of a valiant race.
The strange writing of his letter made him anxious about Gaud, and he drew near a porthole to read the epistle through.