Drouet shook his head.
“My good old Descharmes!” said he, “you belong to the past. Better far an independent and honorable position for a man, than to wear a livery which, no matter how gay it is, puts you at the mercy of the first whippersnapper that comes. I thought Réné was a carpenter?”
“So I am, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; but I only play at joiner work.”
“Nay, look you here!” said my uncle, proud to be able to show some of my handiwork. “Here is a wardrobe the youngster has made.”
Drouet went forward, and examined the construction in question with more interest than it deserved.
“Good—very good!” he said. “Go on as you are doing, my boy; and, believe me, it is far better to work for the public, than to be a game-keeper dependent on a prince, liable to be turned away should a wild boar make an unforeseen bolt, or a wolf force the line of beaters.”
“But,” answered I, “you must know that I have a gun, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; and a gun, too, given me by the Duke D’Enghien.”
And saying this, I showed him the cherished weapon, with as much pride as my uncle had displayed in exhibiting my efforts at wardrobe making.
“A pretty gun,” he said, looking at it attentively; “and I see that it bears the royal mark. If you take my advice, you will not hesitate between the plane which your father left you, and a gun which a prince gave you. The carpenter’s plane is the bread-winner that the philosopher of Geneva put into the hands of his favorite pupil; and ever since the day that ‘Emile’ appeared, the plane has been ennobled.”
“What is ‘Emile,’ Monsieur Jean Baptiste?” I asked.