you berate me for my susceptibility! You reproach me for being unable to listen unmoved to the story of a noble deed, or of pathetic misfortune; for giving money to people who deceive me; for allowing myself to be gulled like an ass by the palaver of a child who tells me that he is begging for his mother, or of a poor laboring man who swears that he has no work and nothing to eat! Well, my dear Bertrand, I prefer my susceptibility to their icy selfishness, and I find in my heart sources of enjoyment which their indifferent hearts will never know.”

This conversation took place in a stylish cabriolet, drawn by a prancing horse, which was bowling along the lovely road from Raincy to Montfermeil. A small groom of some twelve or fourteen years was perched behind the carriage, in which Bertrand was seated beside a young man, dressed in the latest fashion, who, as he conversed, touched occasionally with his whip the spirited steed he was driving.

Bertrand had partly turned his face away toward the end of his master’s speech; and to cloak the emotion which was beginning to be too much for him, he blew his nose and took a huge pinch of snuff. Somewhat composed thereby, he said in a voice slightly tremulous with emotion:

“God forbid, lieutenant, that I should blame you for being tender-hearted! I know your kind heart; I know how willing and ready to help you are! And I could mention a thousand things you’ve done that many men would have bragged about; whereas you are very careful to conceal them.”

“People who boast of the good they do are like the ones who offer you a thing in such a way that you can’t accept it: both give regretfully.”

“We needn’t look very far, lieutenant; haven’t you heaped presents on me? didn’t you take me in, and give me board and lodging?”

“You’re an idiot, Bertrand; don’t you act as my steward, factotum, confidential man of business,—yes, and as my friend, which is better than all the rest, and for which one cannot pay?”

At that, Bertrand turned his head altogether, and blew his nose again, because a great tear had dropped from his eyes. He took two pinches of snuff, and having warmly grasped the hand that his master offered him, he said in a quavering voice:

“Yes, monsieur, you are the best of men; you have a thousand good qualities! and no one had better say anything different in my hearing! Morbleu! my sword isn’t rusty yet.”

“Oho! so now you’re going to flatter me, are you? Remember, Bertrand, that you began this conversation for the purpose of scolding me.”

“Scolding you! no, indeed, lieutenant, but simply to point out to you that it would be more reasonable to love one woman at once; with full liberty to change as soon as you see another one that you like better.”

“Look you, Bertrand, I’ll draw a comparison for you, that you’ll see the justice of at once.”

“You won’t put any Greeks or Romans in it, will you, lieutenant?”

“Not one.—You like wine, don’t you, Bertrand?”

“That’s so, lieutenant; I admit that an old bottle—of a good brand—there’s nothing like that to liven you up!”

“Do you like beaune?”

“Very much, lieutenant.”

“And bordeaux?”

“Ah, yes! it smells of violets; it has a delicious bouquet!”

“And volnay?”

“I’ve never been able to resist it.”

“And chambertin?”

“I would go down on my knees to it, lieutenant.”

“If you had a bottle of each of those wines in front of you, would you give up three of them and drink just a single one?”

“I promise you, lieutenant, that I’d take care of all four of them, and I wouldn’t be any worse off for it either.”

“Why then do you expect me, when I am surrounded by four pretty creatures, each of whom has some peculiar charm, to give up three of them and make love to only one?”

“Parbleu! that’s true enough, lieutenant; you can’t do it; you must drink them—I mean you must love them all four; and I see now that I was wrong.”

The discussions between Bertrand and Auguste Dalville almost always ended so. Auguste was twenty-seven and had twenty thousand francs a year; his father died while he was in the cradle, and his mother was taken away from him six years before our story opens. That was the date of the beginning of Auguste’s life of dissipation; he had sought distraction from his perfectly natural grief, and had finally become unable to resist a sex in whose company he had at first sought diversion only.

Meanwhile, the ambition to wear a handsome uniform, and perhaps to earn a pair of epaulets, had led Auguste to enter the army. The country was at peace; but a young man with a good education does not remain a private. Auguste, promoted to sub-lieutenant, delighted to listen to Bertrand, who had served as corporal of voltigeurs, and had been at Austerlitz, Eylau, and Friedland. Bertrand was only forty-four: he put into the description of his battles the same fire and zeal that he had displayed in the battles themselves, and Auguste never tired of listening. The corporal’s stories excited his ardor; he regretted that he was not born a few years earlier, thinking that he might, like Bertrand, have taken part in those triumphant campaigns which will always be the glory of France.

About this time, Auguste was sent with his regiment to Pampeluna, to which the French were laying siege. Bertrand found himself under the command of the young officer, who had been made a lieutenant. But, the war at an end, Auguste quitted the military profession, and returned to Paris, to abandon himself afresh to his taste for pleasure. He proposed to Bertrand to go with him; he readily obtained his discharge and accompanied Dalville, to whom he was sincerely attached, and whom he continued to call lieutenant, partly from habit and partly from choice.

Bertrand had a mother in Paris, very old and infirm. Auguste’s first care was to settle on the poor woman a pension which placed her beyond fear of want, and enabled her to enjoy in her old age a multitude of comforts which she had never known during her life of toil and misfortune.

Thereafter Auguste was not simply a master in Bertrand’s eyes; he regarded him as his benefactor, and his affection and devotion knew no bounds. After his mother’s death, which occurred three years later, Bertrand attached himself to Auguste’s service altogether, and vowed that he would devote his life to proving his gratitude. Bertrand had had no education; he often made blunders in delivering the messages which his master entrusted to him; but Auguste always forgave him, because he was well aware of the ex-corporal’s attachment and his good heart. Bertrand, as we have seen, sometimes ventured to remonstrate with his superior officer, because, being as yet unfamiliar with the manner of life in high society, Auguste’s follies terrified him, and he was in constant dread that his intrigues would lead to serious complications; but Auguste always succeeded in allaying Bertrand’s fright, so that the latter invariably ended the conversation by saying: “I was in the wrong.”

There are many more things that I might tell you concerning the two men who have been talking together. Perhaps I ought to draw their portraits for you, and to tell you to just what type of face Auguste Dalville’s belonged. But what would be the use? Doubtless some one of his numerous conquests will have something to say about him; so that I should run the risk of unnecessary repetition by sketching him at first. We can simply presume that he was comely, as he was fortunate enough to please the ladies. “That is no reason,” you will say; “when a man has twenty thousand francs a year, that takes the place of physical charms, and conceals ugliness.”—Oh! what an idea, my dear readers! Surely no reader of the gentler sex would make such