In the meantime I was growing up. I had learned to read and write indifferently well; and whilst my uncle was busy in his vocation, I used to occupy myself with carpentry, a calling for which I evinced much aptitude and taste. I was now twelve years of age. I knew every inch of the Forest of Argonne, and I was as good a shot as any of the keepers, and my sole ambition was to take my uncle’s place when he resigned, which he intended to do in four or five years. There was a place, however, left vacant by the resignation of a keeper, which I thought would just suit me for the time; and I determined to solicit the patronage of the Duke D’Enghien. Time passed on, and we arrived at the opening of the year 1788. For five years we had not seen M. Drouet, for, after a quarrel with his father, he had enlisted in the Queen’s Dragoons. One fine morning, however, we heard from his friend William that Father Drouet had become reconciled to him, and had resigned to him his situation of postmaster. One day, we saw a dragoon stop in front of our house, get off his horse, fasten his bridle to a ring, and then come tramping up to the door. “Well, Father Descharmes,” said the soldier, “haven’t you a glass of wine in the house for an old friend?” My uncle looked at him amazed. “Ah!” said I; “don’t you recognize him, uncle? It is Monsieur Jean Baptiste.” “Well, I never—so it is!” cried my uncle, coming forward with outstretched hands. But, stopping for a moment, he added, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Drouet.” “Pardon for what?—for remembering a friend? The fault would have been to forget him. Come, shake hands. Are not all Frenchmen brothers?” “They are; but, at the same time, there are great and small.” “Good! but, in two or three years, I will say to you, ‘There are neither great nor small. All are children of one mother, and all will have their rights before man, as before heaven.’” “Ha! Is that the sort of schooling they give you in the Queen’s Dragoons, Monsieur Jean Baptiste?” “Not only in the Queen’s Dragoons, but in all other regiments, old Nimrod.” My uncle took three glasses from the cupboard, filled two, and half-filled the other for me. Drouet took up his glass. “To the nation!” said he. “What is that word?” inquired my uncle. “It is a new one, which I hope will yet gain the rights of the middle classes. That youngster there; what are you going to do with him?” “Make him my successor.” Drouet shook his head. “My good old Descharmes!” said he, “you belong to the past. Better far an independent and honorable position for a man, than to wear a livery which, no matter how gay it is, puts you at the mercy of the first whippersnapper that comes. I thought Réné was a carpenter?” “So I am, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; but I only play at joiner work.” “Nay, look you here!” said my uncle, proud to be able to show some of my handiwork. “Here is a wardrobe the youngster has made.”