a gentleman, I will die a gentleman, or a soldier."

They put Mr. Pisgah among the conscripts recently levied, and he went
about town with a fictitious number in his hat, joining in their
bacchanal choruses. The next day he appeared in white duck jacket and
pantaloons, looking like an overgrown baker's boy, with a chapeau like a
flat, burnt loaf. He was then put through the manual, which seemed to
indicate all possible motions save that of liquoring up, and when he was
so fatigued that he had not the energy even to fall down, he was clasped
in the arms of Madame Francine, who had traced him to the barracks, but
was too late to avert his destiny.

"Oh! _mon amant!_" she cried, falling upon his neck. "Why did you go and
do it? You knew that I did not mean to see you starve."

"You have consigned me to a soldier's grave, woman!" answered Pisgah, in
the deepest tragedy tone.

"Do not say so, my _bonbon_!" pleaded the good lady, covering him with
kisses. "I would have worn my hands to the bone to save you from this
dreadful life. Suppose you should be sent to Algiers or Mexico, or some
other heathen country, and die there."

It was Pisgah's turn to be touched.

"My blood is upon your head, Francine! Have you any money?"

"Yes, yes! a gentleman, a _noir_, a _naigre_, for whom I have washed,
paid me fifty francs this evening. It is all here; take it, my love!"

"I do not know, creature! that your conduct permits me to do so," said
Pisgah, drawing back.

"You will drive me mad if you refuse," shrieked the blanchisseuse. "Oh!
oh! how wicked and wretched am I!"

"Enough, madame! step over the way for my habitual glass of absinthe. Be
particular about the change. We military men must be careful of our
incomes. Stay! you may embrace me if you like."

The poor woman came every day to the barracks, bringing some trifle of
food or clothing. She washed his regimentals, burnished his buckles and
boots, paid his losses at cards, and bought him books and tobacco. She
could never persuade herself that Pisgah was not her victim, and he
found it useful to humor the notion.

Down in the swift Seine, at her booth in the great lavatory, where the
ice rushed by and the rain beat in, she thought of Pisgah as she toiled;
and though her back ached and her hands were flayed, she never wondered
if her lot were not the most pitiable, and his in part deserved.

How often should we hard, selfish men, thank God for the weaknesses of
women