o the cage, was a bench, where, at this moment, a one-armed man was
breakfasting, who was called Coloquinte by Giroudeau, doubtless from
the Egyptian colors of his skin.

"A pretty hole!" exclaimed Philippe, looking round the room. "In the
name of thunder! what are you doing here, you who charged with poor
Colonel Chabert at Eylau? You--a gallant officer!"

"Well, yes! broum! broum!--a gallant officer keeping the accounts of a
little newspaper," said Giroudeau, settling his black silk skull-cap.
"Moreover, I'm the working editor of all that rubbish," he added,
pointing to the newspaper itself.

"And I, who went to Egypt, I'm obliged to stamp it," said the
one-armed man.

"Hold your tongue, Coloquinte," said Giroudeau. "You are in presence
of a hero who carried the Emperor's orders at the battle of
Montereau."

Coloquinte saluted. "That's were I lost my missing arm!" he said.

"Coloquinte, look after the den. I'm going up to see my nephew."

The two soldiers mounted to the fourth floor, where, in an attic room
at the end of a passage, they found a young man with a cold light eye,
lying on a dirty sofa. The representative of the press did not stir,
though he offered cigars to his uncle and his uncle's friend.

"My good fellow," said Giroudeau in a soothing and humble tone, "this
is the gallant cavalry officer of the Imperial Guard of whom I spoke
to you."

"Eh! well?" said Finot, eyeing Philippe, who, like Giroudeau, lost all
his assurance before the diplomatist of the press.

"My dear boy," said Giroudeau, trying to pose as an uncle, "the
colonel has just returned from Texas."

"Ah! you were taken in by that affair of the Champ d'Asile, were you?
Seems to me you were rather young to turn into a Soldier-laborer."

The bitterness of this jest will only be understood by those who
remember the deluge of engravings, screens, clocks, bronzes, and
plaster-casts produced by the idea of the Soldier-laborer, a splendid
image of Napoleon and his heroes, which afterwards made its appearance
on the stage in vaudevilles. That idea, however, obtained a national
subscription; and we still find, in the depths of the provinces, old
wall-papers which bear the effigy of the Soldier-laborer. If this
young man had not been Giroudeau's nephew, Philippe would have boxed
his ears.

"Yes, I was taken in by it; I lost my time, and twelve thousand francs
to boot," answered Philippe, trying to force a grin.

"You are still fond of