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