r that he might stray into the
menagerie--you will then acknowledge that it was not my fault. That is,
you will acknowledge it if you think fit," hastily added the soldier "I
have no right to dictate to you in anything."

"And why the devil should any one do you this ill-turn?"

"I do not know, Mr. Burgomaster--but--"

"You do not know--well, nor I either," said the burgomaster impatiently.
"Zounds! what a many words about the carcass of an old horse!"

The countenance of the soldier, losing on a sudden its expression of
forced suavity, became once more severe; he answered in a grave voice,
full of emotion: "My horse is dead--he is no more than a carcass--that is
true; but an hour ago, though very old, he was full of life and
intelligence. He neighed joyously at my voice--and, every evening, he
licked the hands of the two poor children, whom he had carried all the
day--as formerly he had carried their mother. Now he will never carry any
one again; they will throw him to the dogs, and all will be finished. You
need not have reminded me harshly of it, Mr. Burgomaster--for I loved my
horse!"

By these words, pronounced with noble and touching simplicity, the
burgomaster was moved in spite of himself, and regretted his hasty
speech. "It is natural that you should be sorry for your horse," said he,
in a less impatient tone; "but what is to be done?--It is a misfortune."

"A misfortune?--Yes, Mr. Burgomaster, a very great misfortune. The girls,
who accompany me, were too weak to undertake a long journey on foot, too
poor to travel in a carriage--and yet we have to arrive in Paris before
the month of February. When their mother died, I promised her to take
them to France, for these children have only me to take care of them."

"You are then their--"

"I am their faithful servant, Mr. Burgomaster; and now that my horse has
been killed, what can I do for them? Come, you are good, you have perhaps
children of your own; if, one day, they should find themselves in the
position of my two little orphans--with no wealth, no resources in the
world, but an old soldier who loves them, and an old horse to carry them
along--if, after being very unfortunate from their birth--yes, very
unfortunate, for my orphans are the daughters of exiles--they should see
happiness before them at the end of a journey, and then, by the death of
their horse, that journey become impossible--tell me, Mr. Burgomaster, if
this would not touch your heart?