I seem to see a twitching in the gray moustaches of the veteran; he stops abruptly, and, holding back his guide with his remaining arm: 

“They all pity me,” says he, “because they do not understand it; but if I were to answer them—­”

“What would you say to them, father?” asks the young man, with curiosity.

“I should say first to the woman who weeps when she looks at me, to keep her tears for other misfortunes; for each of my wounds calls to mind some struggle for my colors.  There is room for doubting how some men have done their duty; with me it is visible.  I carry the account of my services, written with the enemy’s steel and lead, on myself; to pity me for having done my duty is to suppose I would better have been false to it.”

“And what would you say to the countryman, father?”

“I should tell him that, to drive the plow in peace, we must first secure the country itself; and that, as long as there are foreigners ready to eat our harvest, there must be arms to defend it.”

“But the young student, too, shook his head when he lamented such a use of life.”

“Because he does not know what self-sacrifice and suffering can teach.  The books that he studies we have put in practice, though we never read them:  the principles he applauds we have defended with powder and bayonet.”

“And at the price of your limbs and your blood.  The merchant said, when he saw your maimed body, ‘See the worth of glory!"’

“Do not believe him, my son:  the true glory is the bread of the soul; it is this which nourishes self-sacrifice, patience, and courage.  The Master of all has bestowed it as a tie the more between men.  When we desire to be distinguished by our brethren, do we not thus prove our esteem and our sympathy for them?  The longing for admiration is but one side of love.  No, no; the true glory can never be too dearly paid for!  That which we should deplore, child, is not the infirmities which prove a generous self-sacrifice, but those which our vices or our imprudence have called forth.  Ah! if I could speak aloud to those who, when passing, cast looks of pity upon me, I should say to the young man whose excesses have dimmed his sight before he is old, ‘What have you done with your eyes?’ To the slothful man, who with difficulty drags along his enervated mass of flesh, ‘What have you done with your feet?’ To the old man, who is punished for his intemperance by the gout, ’What have you done with your hands?’ To all, ’What have you done with the days God granted you, with the faculties you should have employed for the good of your brethren?’ If you cannot answer, bestow no more of your pity upon the old soldier maimed in his country’s cause; for he—­he at least—­can show his scars without shame.”

October 16th.—­The little engraving has made me comprehend better the merits of Father Chaufour, and I therefore esteem him all the more.

He has just now left my attic.  There no longer passes a single day without his coming to work by my fire, or my going to sit and talk by his board.