"Charles, my boy," he said, "in addition to the official and secret missions with which you are charged, I should like to give you a special one. Will you accept it?" "Gladly, general," said Charles, clinging to Pichegru's arm. "What is it?" "I don't know yet. I have a friend at Besançon named Rose; she lives in the Rue Collombier, No. 7." "Ah!" exclaimed Charles, "I know her, she is our family seamstress. She is a kind-hearted woman about thirty, who limps a little." "Exactly," said Pichegru, smiling. "The other day she sent me six fine linen shirts which she had made herself. I should like to send her something in return." "That is a good idea, general." "But what shall I send? I do not know what would please her." "Take the advice that the weather itself gives you--buy her a good umbrella. We will use it on the way home. Then I will tell her that you have used it, and it will be all the more precious to her." "You are right; it will be most useful to her when she goes out. Poor Rose, she has no carriage. Let us go in here." They were just opposite an umbrella-shop. Pichegru opened and shut ten or twelve, finally selecting a magnificent sky-blue one. He paid thirty-eight francs in paper money at par for it. This was the gift which the first general of the Republic sent to his best friend. The reader will readily understand that I should not have related this incident if it were not historic. When they returned at night, Pichegru busied himself with his correspondence, telling Charles, who was to start the next day, to sleep well. It was on this evening that the curious occurrence which I am about to relate took place. It was told to me by little Charles himself, after he had grown to be a man of forty-five, and had become a learned writer, with the great library he had wished for so many years before. Charles, obeying Saint-Just's decree, threw himself upon his bed all dressed. Like all who wore the uniform, he customarily had a black cravat tied tight around his neck. It was like that which Pichegru himself wore, and which all the staff had adopted; in the first place, out of compliment to the general, and, secondly, in protest against Saint-Just's voluminous neckpieces. Charles, in order to copy the general more exactly, tied his in a little knot on the left side--a fashion which he continued to follow until his death. Half an hour later, Pichegru, who was working, heard Charles moan. At first he paid no attention to it, thinking that the boy was dreaming; but as the groans became more pronounced, and changed to a rattling in the throat, Pichegru rose, went to the boy, whom he found lying face down, raised his head after slipping his hand under his neck, and untied the knot which was strangling him. The boy awoke, and, recognizing Pichegru, who was bending over him, asked: "Is it you, general; do you need me?"