ou
know how to read and write?' said he. 'Eh? Why! I know not if I know,'
said I. 'What! You do not know if you know?' he repeated. 'Why, no, my
Emperor,' said I; 'for, look you! I have never tried; but perhaps I do
know.' The emperor pulled my ear, as much as to say, 'Well, here is an
odd one!' 'But,' said he, 'to be a secretary one must know how to read
and write, comrade.' He called me his comrade, see you--me, who had
blackened his shoes at Brienne. I was the emperor's comrade. He had said
it. The tears came to my eyes for joy. 'Ah, then, my Emperor, let us say
no more about it,' said I. 'But if you would promise to learn,' said he.
'Oh, as for that, my Emperor,' I answered, 'by the faith of an Egyptian
of the guard, second division, first battalion! I do not promise it to
you.'--'Then ask me something else,' said he. I hesitated. I did not
know how to say just what I wished to ask; for it was worth to me very
much more than the place of secretary. 'Come, then, comrade; speak
quickly,' said the emperor; 'what is it you wish?'--'I wish, my
Emperor,' I stammered, 'to press my lips to your hand.'"

"Ho! was that all?" cried the youngster.

"All!" echoed the Nonesuch, turning upon the youngest veteran a look of
scorn. "All! It was more than anything!"

"Well, and what said the emperor?" asked Stephen breathlessly.

"He said nothing," responded Nonesuch. "He smiled; then instantly I felt
his hand in mine. I wonder I did not die with joy. I kissed his hand.
He grasped mine firmly. 'Thanks, my comrade,' he said. 'My Emperor,' I
said, 'I promise you never to learn to read and write.' And I said no
more. And that, comrades, is why I never learned."

"Which hand was it?" asked the youngster with interest.

"This one, thank God!" cried the veteran. "The other I lost at Jena. No,
I never learned to write; the hand that the emperor had clasped in his
should never, I vowed, be dishonored by a pen. I look at this hand with
veneration. See! it has been pressed by my emperor. I love it; I honor
it. Indeed, at one time I thought of cutting it off,--that was before
Jena,--and putting it in a frame, that I might have it always before my
eyes. But my General Junot, to whom I told my plan, said that then it
would be spoiled forever, and that the only way not to lose sight of it
was to let it always hang to my arm; thus, he said, it would always
be beside me. That is how you see it still, comrades. To write, to
write--bah! It always