“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 to tell the story of Lookout Mountain.