"Thanks." I wrote. The general looked on.
I had scarcely written my name before he clapped his hands together.
"We are saved!" he said.
"How is that?"
"You write a beautiful hand."
My head fell on my breast; my shame was insupportable. The only thing I possessed was a good handwriting. This diploma of incapacity well became me! A beautiful handwriting! So some day I might become a copying-clerk. That was my future! I would rather cut off my right arm. General Foy went on without paying much heed to what was passing through my mind.
"Listen," he said: "I am dining to-day at the Palais-Royal; I will mention you to the Duc d'Orléans; I will tell him he ought to take the son of a Republican general into his offices. Sit down there...."
He pointed to an empty desk.
"Draw up a petition, and write your very best."