“Think of his health,” said Agathe.

“Why doesn’t he get some place, or business?” said old Desroches; “there are plenty of private offices to be had.  I am going as head of a bureau in an insurance company, as soon as I have got my pension.”

“Philippe is a soldier; he would not like to be any thing else,” said the warlike Agathe.

“Then he ought to have the sense to ask for employment—­”

“And serve these others!” cried the widow.  “Oh!  I will never give him that advice.”

“You are wrong,” said Du Bruel.  “My son has just got an appointment through the Duc de Navarreins.  The Bourbons are very good to those who are sincere in rallying to them.  Your son could be appointed lieutenant-colonel to a regiment.”

“They only appoint nobles in the cavalry.  Philippe would never rise to be a colonel,” said Madame Descoings.

Agathe, much alarmed, entreated Philippe to travel abroad, and put himself at the service of some foreign power who, she thought, would gladly welcome a staff officer of the Emperor.

“Serve a foreign nation!” cried Philippe, with horror.

Agathe kissed her son with enthusiasm.

“His father all over!” she exclaimed.

“He is right,” said Joseph.  “France is too proud of her heroes to let them be heroic elsewhere.  Napoleon may return once more.”

However, to satisfy his mother, Philippe took up the dazzling idea of joining General Lallemand in the United States, and helping him to found what was called the Champ d’Asile, one of the most disastrous swindles that ever appeared under the name of national subscription.  Agathe gave ten thousand francs to start her son, and she went to Havre to see him off.  By the end of 1817, she had accustomed herself to live on the six hundred francs a year which remained to her from her property in the Funds; then, by a lucky chance, she made a good investment of the ten thousand francs she still kept of her savings, from which she obtained an interest of seven per cent.  Joseph wished to emulate his mother’s devotion.  He dressed like a bailiff; wore the commonest shoes and blue stockings; denied himself gloves, and burned charcoal; he lived on bread and milk and Brie cheese.  The poor lad got no sympathy, except from Madame Descoings, and from Bixiou, his student-friend and comrade, who was then making those admirable caricatures of his, and filling a small office in the ministry.

“With what joy I welcomed the summer of 1818!” said Joseph Bridau in after-years, relating his troubles; “the sun saved me the cost of charcoal.”