“‘Chaufour,’ said I to myself with a smile, ’after the sword, the hammer; after the hammer, the broom; you are going downstairs, my old boy, but you are still serving your country.’”

“‘However, you ended by leaving your new profession?’ said I.”

“A reform was required, neighbor.  The street-sweepers seldom have their feet dry, and the damp at last made the wounds in my good leg open again.  I could no longer follow the regiment, and it was necessary to lay down my arms.  It is now two months since I left off working in the sanitary department of Paris.

“At the first moment I was daunted.  Of my four limbs, I had now only my right hand, and even that had lost its strength; so it was necessary to find some gentlemanly occupation for it.  After trying a little of everything, I fell upon card-box making, and here I am at cases for the lace and buttons of the national guard; it is work of little profit, but it is within the capacity of all.  By getting up at four and working till eight, I earn sixty-five centimes; my lodging and bowl of soup take fifty of them, and there are three sous over for luxuries.  So I am richer than France herself, for I have no deficit in my budget; and I continue to serve her, as I save her lace and buttons.”

At these words Father Chaufour looked at me with a smile, and with his great scissors began cutting the green paper again for his cardboard cases.  My heart was touched, and I remained lost in thought.

Here is still another member of that sacred phalanx who, in the battle of life, always march in front for the example and the salvation of the world!  Each of these brave soldiers has his war-cry; for this one it is “Country,” for that “Home,” for a third “Mankind;” but they all follow the same standard—­that of duty; for all the same divine law reigns—­that of self-sacrifice.  To love something more than one’s self—­that is the secret of all that is great; to know how to live for others—­that is the aim of all noble souls.

CHAPTER XI

MORAL USE OF INVENTORIES

November 13th, Nine O’clock P.M.

I had well stopped up the chinks of my window; my little carpet was nailed down in its place; my lamp, provided with its shade, cast a subdued light around, and my stove made a low, murmuring sound, as if some live creature was sharing my hearth with me.

All was silent around me.  But, out of doors the snow and rain swept the roofs, and with a low, rushing sound ran along the gurgling gutters; sometimes a gust of wind forced itself beneath the tiles, which rattled together like castanets, and afterward it was lost in the empty corridor.  Then a slight and pleasurable shiver thrilled through my veins:  I drew the flaps of my old wadded dressing-gown around me, I pulled my threadbare velvet cap over my eyes, and, letting myself sink deeper into my easy-chair, while my feet basked in the heat and light which shone