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dge of silks; perhaps to oversee the weighing of sugar, of iron, of diamonds; perhaps to taste of wines. Who can say what service this great government may not need from its children! With some labor, since the English is only a translucent, and not a transparent medium to Sorel, this is made clear. Still the horizon is dark. Mr. Fox draws his chair nearer, facing Sorel, who looks uneasy: Sorel's feelings, to the thousandth degree of subdivision, are always declaring themselves in swift succession upon his face. Mr. Fox proceeds. "The great officer of the custom-house, the collector--" "_Le chef?_" interrupts Sorel. --yes, the _chef_ (Mr. Fox seizes upon the word and clings to it),--the _chef_ has been speaking anxiously to Mr. Fox about this vacancy: Mr. Fox is in the _chefs_ confidence. "Ah!" from Sorel, in a tone of utter bewilderment. "We must have," the _chef_ had said to Mr. Fox,--"we must have for this place a noble man, a man with a large heart" (the exact required dimensions Mr. Fox does not give); "a man who loves his government, a man who has showed himself ready to die for her; we must have"--here Mr. Fox bends forward and lays his hand upon Sorel's knee, and looks him in the eye,--"we must have--_a soldier!_" "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 Republique!_ 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 state
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