“Poor old man!” said Genestas, as they turned to go.  “I should do the same if I were in his place; we have lost our father.  Everything seems dark to me now that I have seen that man’s hopelessness,” he went on, addressing Benassis; “he does not know how much I am interested in him, and he will think that I am one of those gilded rascals who cannot feel for a soldier’s sufferings.”

He turned quickly and went back, grasped the veteran’s hand, and spoke loudly in his ear: 

“I swear by the Cross I wear—­the Cross of Honor it used to be—­that I will do all that man can do to obtain your pension for you; even if I have to swallow a dozen refusals from the minister, and to petition the king and the dauphin and the whole shop!”

Old Gondrin quivered as he heard the words.  He looked hard at Genestas and said, “Haven’t you served in the ranks?” The commandant nodded.  The pontooner wiped his hand and took that of Genestas, which he grasped warmly and said: 

“I made the army a present of my life, general, when I waded out into the river yonder, and if I am still alive, it is all so much to the good.  One moment!  Do you care to see to the bottom of it?  Well, then, ever since somebody was pulled down from his place, I have ceased to care about anything.  And, after all,” he went on cheerfully, as he pointed to the land, “they have made over twenty thousand francs to me here, and I am taking it out in detail, as he used to say!”

“Well, then, comrade,” said Genestas, touched by the grandeur of this forgiveness, “at least you shall have the only thing that you cannot prevent me from giving to you, here below.”  The commandant tapped his heart, looked once more at the old pontooner, mounted his horse again, and went his way side by side with Benassis.

“Such cruelty as this on the part of the government foments the strife between rich and poor,” said the doctor.  “People who exercise a little brief authority have never given a serious thought to the consequences that must follow an act of injustice done to a man of the people.  It is true that a poor man who needs must work for his daily bread cannot long keep up the struggle; but he can talk, and his words find an echo in every sufferer’s heart, so that one bad case of this kind is multiplied, for every one who hears of it feels it as a personal wrong, and the leaven works.  Even this is not so serious, but something far worse comes of it.  Among the people, these causes of injustice bring about a chronic state of smothered hatred for their social superiors.  The middle class becomes the poor man’s enemy; they lie without the bounds of his moral code, he tells lies to them and robs them without scruple; indeed, theft ceases to be a crime or a misdemeanor, and is looked upon as an act of vengeance.