t could be the crime of the worthy soul whom
Madame de la Chanterie called her _paschal lamb_? The thought crossed
Godefroid's mind that a book might be written on it, called "The Sins of
a Sheep." Sheep are sometimes quite ferocious towards grass and flowers.
One of the tenderest republicans of those days was heard to assert
that the best of human beings was cruel to something. But the kindly
Alain!--he, who like my uncle Toby, wouldn't crush a gnat till it
had stung him twenty times,--that sweet soul to have been tortured by
repentance!

This reflection in Godefroid's mind filled the pause made by the old man
after saying, "Now listen to me!"--a pause he filled himself by pushing
his cushion under Godefroid's feet to share it with him.

"I was then about thirty years of age," he said. "It was the year '98,
if I remember right,--a period when young men were forced to have the
experience of men of sixty. One morning, a little before my breakfast
hour, which was nine o'clock, my old housekeeper ushered in one of the
few friends remaining to me after the Revolution. My first word was to
ask him to breakfast. My friend--his name was Mongenod, a fellow about
twenty-eight years of age--accepted, but he did so in an awkward manner.
I had not seen him since 1793!"

"Mongenod!" cried Godefroid; "why, that is--"

"If you want to know the end before the beginning, how am I to tell you
my history?" said the old man, smiling.

Godefroid made a sign which promised absolute silence.

"When Mongenod sat down," continued Monsieur Alain, "I noticed that his
shoes were worn out. His stockings had been washed so often that it
was difficult to say if they were silk or not. His breeches, of
apricot-colored cassimere, were so old that the color had disappeared
in spots; and the buckles, instead of being of steel, seemed to me to be
made of common iron. His white, flowered waistcoat, now yellow from
long wearing, also his shirt, the frill of which was frayed, betrayed
a horrible yet decent poverty. A mere glance at his coat was enough to
convince me that my friend had fallen into dire distress. That coat was
nut-brown in color, threadbare at the seams, carefully brushed, though
the collar was greasy from pomade or powder, and had the white metal
buttons now copper-colored. The whole was so shabby that I tried not to
look at it. The hat--an opera hat of a kind we then carried under the
arm, and not on the head--had seen many governments.