I nodded. "And your father--where is he?" "Dead." He made a sign to imitate the guillotine, and I assented by another nod. "Was he a royalist, boy?" "He was an officer in the _gardes du corps_," said I, proudly. The soldier shook his head mournfully, but with what meaning I know not. "And your mother, boy?" "I do not know where she is," said I, again relapsing into tears at the thought of my utter desolation. The old soldier leaned upon his musket in profound thought, and for some time did not utter a word. At last he said, "There is nothing but the Hotel de Ville for you, my child. They say that the Republic adopts all the orphans of France. What she does with them I can not tell." "But I can, though," replied I, fiercely: "the Noyades or the Seine are a quick and sure provision; I saw eighty drowned one morning below the Pont Neuf myself." "That tongue of yours will bring you into trouble, youngster," said he, reprovingly: "mind that you say not such things as these." "What worse fortune can betide me, than to see my father die at the guillotine, and my last, my only friend, carried away to prison." "You have no care for your own neck, then?" "Why should I--what value has life for me?" "Then it will be spared to you," said he, sententiously; "mark my words, lad. You need never fear death till you begin to love life. Get up, my poor boy, you must not be found there when the relief comes, and that will be soon. This is all that I have," said he, placing three sous in my palm, "which will buy a loaf; to-morrow there may be better luck in store for you." I shook the rough hand he offered, with cordial gratitude, and resolved to bear myself as like a man as I could. I drew myself up, touched my cap in soldier-like fashion, and cried out. "Adieu;" and then, descending into the street, hurried away to hide the tears that were almost suffocating me.