In Madeira Place | Page 3

Sorel does not commit himself. He is an importer of toys. One must
be on his guard.
Thereupon, a complicated explanation: this street, and that street, and
the other street, and this building, and the market, and the great
building standing here.
Ah! yes! M. Sorel identifies the building. Then he is informed that
many government officers are there. He knew it very well before.
The conversation goes a step farther.
Mr. Fox is one of those officers. The government is at present in need
of a gentleman absolutely trustworthy, for certain important duties:
perhaps to judge of silks; perhaps to oversee the weighing of sugar, of
iron, of diamonds; perhaps to taste of wines. Who can say what service
this great government may not need from its children!
With some labor, since the English is only a translucent, and not a
transparent medium to Sorel, this is made clear. Still the horizon is
dark.
Mr. Fox draws his chair nearer, facing Sorel, who looks uneasy: Sorel's
feelings, to the thousandth degree of subdivision, are always declaring
themselves in swift succession upon his face.
Mr. Fox proceeds.
"The great officer of the custom-house, the collector--"
"Le chef?" interrupts Sorel.
--yes, the chef (Mr. Fox seizes upon the word and clings to it),--the chef
has been speaking anxiously to Mr. Fox about this vacancy: Mr. Fox is
in the chefs confidence.
"Ah!" from Sorel, in a tone of utter bewilderment.
"We must have," the chef had said to Mr. Fox,--"we must have for this

place a noble man, a man with a large heart" (the exact required
dimensions Mr. Fox does not give); "a man who loves his government,
a man who has showed himself ready to die for her; we must
have"--here Mr. Fox bends forward and lays his hand upon Sorel's knee,
and looks him in the eye,--"we must have--a soldier!"
"Ah!" says Sorel, moving his chair back a little, unconsciously, "il faut
un soldat! I un-'stan',--le chef 'e boun' to 'ave one sol'ier!"
Still no comprehension of the stranger's object. Curiosity, however,
prompts Sorel at this point to an inquiry: "'Ow much 'e goin' pay 'im?"
Mr. Fox suggests that he guess. M. Sorel guesses, boldly, and
high,--almost insolently high,--eight dollars a week: she is so generous,
la République!
Higher!
"Higher!" Sorel's eyes open. He guesses again, and recklessly: "Dix
dollars par semaine; you know--ten dol-lar ever-y week."
Try again,--again,--again! He guesses,--madly now, as one risks his
gold at Baden: twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen.
Yes, eighteen dollars a week, and more--a thousand dollars every year.
Sorel wipes his brow. A thousand dollars in one year! It is like a
temptation of the devil.
Sorel ventures another inquiry. The chef of the customhouse, esteeming
the old sol'iers so highly, is an old sol'ier himself,--is it not so? He has
fought for his country? Doubtless he has lost an arm. And Sorel
instinctively lets his right arm hang limp, as if the sleeve were empty.
No; the chef was an editor and a statesman in the time of the war. He
had greatly desired to go to fight, but his duties did not permit it. Still,
he loves the old soldier.
Another advance in the conversation, this time by Mr. Fox.

The government, it seems, has now awakened, with deep distress, to
the fact that one class of her soldiers she has hitherto forgotten. The
government--that is, the chef of the customhouse--had this very
morning said to Mr. Fox that this class of old soldiers must be brought
forward, for trust and for honor. "We must choose, for this vacant
place," the chef had said,--here Mr. Fox brings his face forward in close
proximity to Sorel's astonished countenance,--"we must have, not only
an old soldier, but--a Frenchman!"
"Ah!"
"Such a soldier lives here," says Mr. Fox; "is it not true? So brave, so
honest, so modest, so faithful! Ready to die for his country; worthy of
trust and worthy of reward!"
"Mais!" with amazement. Yes, such a sol-'ier lives here. But can it be
that monsieur refers to our Fidèle?
Precisely so!
Whereupon Sorel, hard, hairless, but French, weeps, and embraces Mr.
Fox as the representative of the great government at Washington; and,
weeping and laughing, leads him downstairs and presents him to Fidèle
and to the bear-leaders, and opens a bottle of weak vinegar.
Such an ovation as Fidèle receives! And such a generous government!
To send a special messenger to seek out the old sergeant in his
retirement! So thoughtful! But it is all of a piece with its unfailing care
in the past.
Fidèle begins, on the spot, to resume something of his former erectness
and soldierly bearing; to shake off the stoop and slouch which lameness
and the drawing about of his "musique" have given him. He wishes