In this emergency, Francois Derblay had thought of a person to whom he had once rendered a service of importance—­a tradesman who lived in a neighboring town, who was known to be rich, and who had promised his benefactor in the first flush of his gratitude that if ever he could discharge the obligation under which he lay, he would do so at any cost and with the sincerest joy.  Poor, guileless Derblay! measuring the words of others by the same simple and honest standard of truth by which he was used to mete his own sayings and promises, he innocently believed in the sterling worth of his debtor’s assurance, and starting off to visit him with his son, naively asked the man to lend him the fourteen hundred francs he so much needed.  Of course the worthy shopkeeper would have been, as he said, delighted to do so:  day and night had he thought of his dear friend, and prayed Providence to send him an occasion of showing his gratitude.  But why, alas! had not Francois come but half an hour before?  He should then have had the sum, and double, treble the sum, had he pleased; whereas now—­and dear! dear! what an unfortunate thing it was!—­now it was completely out of his power to comply with the request, for he had just paid in to a creditor five thousand francs, “the last money he had or should have for some months.”  The good soul was grieved beyond expression, wept, and affectionately showed his visitors to the door.

It was on their return from this bootless errand the day previous to the drawing of the conscription that I had fallen in with the two peasants.  They had cast their last die but one, and unsuccessfully:  a single chance yet remained—­that of drawing a lucky ticket—­but on this they dared not even hope.  Their match against Fortune they considered already lost, and told me so.

“No, no,” I exclaimed in as cheering a tone as possible, “you must not despair, Monsieur Derblay:  your son has as good a chance of drawing happily as any one else.”

“Ay,” answered the old man, “but few have a good chance at all this year;” and he then explained that owing to the Mexican expedition, there was a greater demand for soldiers than usual, and also that, by a strange fatality, the number of young men of age to draw—­that is, of twenty—­was smaller that year than usual.  Some one hundred and ten only were to be chosen from, and of these about eighty would be conscripts.

“Well, well,” I cried, “there will still be thirty winning numbers.”

Henri shook his head:  “We cannot count so many as that, sir, for of the eighty taken twenty at least will claim exemption on the ground of infirmities, as being only sons of widows, or as having elder brothers already in the service.  The government will thus be obliged to press twenty more, and this will bring the number of losing figures up to one hundred.”

“The odds are ten to one against him,” sadly muttered the father, drawing from his pocket a paper covered with figures.  “We have it all written down here:  I’ve calculated it;” and for perhaps the thousandth time the old man recommenced his dismal arithmetic.