Any whose minds are troubled by these delineations should remember that they are listening to the voice of one who has passed from this world.  Reader, whom I shall never know, of me there is nothing—­nothing but what I am in the hands of the living God.

A few weeks later I was sent for one morning.  My father was waiting for me in his cabinet.

“Sir,” said he, “you must renounce your follies.  Your brother has obtained for you a commission as ensign in the regiment of Navarre.  You must presently set out for Rennes, and thence to Cambray.  Here are a hundred louis-d’or; take care of them.  I am old and ill—­I have no long time to live.  Behave like a good man, and never dishonour your name.”

He embraced me.  I felt the hard and wrinkled face pressed with emotion against mine.  This was my father’s last embrace.

The mail courier brought me to my garrison.  Having joined the regiment in the garb of a citizen, twenty-four hours afterwards I assumed that of a soldier; it appeared as if I had worn it always.  I was not fifteen days in the regiment before I became an officer.  I learned with facility both the exercise and the theory of arms.  I passed through the offices of corporal and sergeant with the approbation of my instructors.  My rooms became the rendezvous of the old captains, as well as of the young lieutenants.

The same year in which I went through my first training in arms at Cambray brought news of the death of Frederic II.  I am now ambassador to the nephew of this great king, and write this part of my memoirs in Berlin.  This piece of important public news was succeeded by another, mournful to me.  It was announced to me that my father had been carried off by an attack of apoplexy.

I lamented M. de Chateaubriand.  I remembered neither his severity nor his weakness.  If my father’s affection for me partook of the severity of his character, in reality it was not the less deep.  My brother announced to me that I had already obtained the rank of captain of cavalry, a rank entitling me to honour and courtesy.

A few days later I set out to be presented at the first court in Europe.  I remember my emotion when I saw the king at Versailles.  When the king’s levee was announced, the persons not presented withdrew.  I felt an emotion of vanity; I was not proud of remaining, but I should have felt humiliated at having to retire.  The royal bed-chamber door opened; I saw the king, according to custom, finishing his toilet.  He advanced, on his way to the chapel, to hear mass.  I bowed, Marshal de Duras announcing my name—­“Sire, le Chevalier de Chateaubriand.”

The king graciously returned my salutation, and seemed to wish to address me; but, more embarrassed than I, finding nothing to say to me, he passed on.  This sovereign was Louis XVI., only six years before he was brought to the scaffold.

II.—­In the Years of Revolution