Time passed on, and we arrived at the opening of the year 1788.
For five years we had not seen M. Drouet, for, after a quarrel with his father, he had enlisted in the Queen’s Dragoons.
One fine morning, however, we heard from his friend William that Father Drouet had become reconciled to him, and had resigned to him his situation of postmaster.
One day, we saw a dragoon stop in front of our house, get off his horse, fasten his bridle to a ring, and then come tramping up to the door.
“Well, Father Descharmes,” said the soldier, “haven’t you a glass of wine in the house for an old friend?”
My uncle looked at him amazed.
“Ah!” said I; “don’t you recognize him, uncle? It is Monsieur Jean Baptiste.”
“Well, I never—so it is!” cried my uncle, coming forward with outstretched hands.
But, stopping for a moment, he added, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Drouet.”
“Pardon for what?—for remembering a friend? The fault would have been to forget him. Come, shake hands. Are not all Frenchmen brothers?”