“You are a soldier, then?”

“I served in the Third Artillery under the Republic, and afterward in the Guard, through all the commotions.  I was at Jemappes and at Waterloo; so I was at the christening and at the burial of our glory, as one may say!”

I looked at him with astonishment.

“And how old were you then, at Jemappes?” asked I.

“Somewhere about fifteen,” said he.

“How came you to think of being a soldier so early?”

“I did not really think about it.  I then worked at toy-making, and never dreamed that France would ask me for anything else than to make her draught-boards, shuttlecocks, and cups and balls.  But I had an old uncle at Vincennes whom I went to see from time to time—­a Fontenoy veteran in the same rank of life as myself, but with ability enough to have risen to that of a marshal.  Unluckily, in those days there was no way for common people to get on.  My uncle, whose services would have got him made a prince under the other, had then retired with the mere rank of sub-lieutenant.  But you should have seen him in his uniform, his cross of St. Louis, his wooden leg, his white moustaches, and his noble countenance.  You would have said he was a portrait of one of those old heroes in powdered hair which are at Versailles!

“Every time I visited him, he said something which remained fixed in my memory.  But one day I found him quite grave.

“‘Jerome,’ said he, ‘do you know what is going on on the frontier?’

“‘No, lieutenant,’ replied I.

“‘Well,’ resumed he, ‘our country is in danger!’

“I did not well understand him, and yet it seemed something to me.

“‘Perhaps you have never thought what your country means,’ continued he, placing his hand on my shoulder; `it is all that surrounds you, all that has brought you up and fed you, all that you have loved!  This ground that you see, these houses, these trees, those girls who go along there laughing—­this is your country!  The laws which protect you, the bread which pays for your work, the words you interchange with others, the joy and grief which come to you from the men and things among which you live—­this is your country!  The little room where you used to see your mother, the remembrances she has left you, the earth where she rests—­this is your country!  You see it, you breathe it, everywhere!  Think to yourself, my son, of your rights and your duties, your affections and your wants, your past and your present blessings; write them all under a single name—­and that name will be your country!’

“I was trembling with emotion, and great tears were in my eyes.

“‘Ah!  I understand,’ cried I; ’it is our home in large; it is that part of the world where God has placed our body and our soul.’

“‘You are right, Jerome,’ continued the old soldier; ’so you comprehend also what we owe it.’

“‘Truly,’ resumed I, ’we owe it all that we are; it is a question of love.’