"Gladly, general," said Charles, clinging to Pichegru's arm. "What is it?"
"I don't know yet. I have a friend at Besançon named Rose; she lives in the Rue Collombier, No. 7."
"Ah!" exclaimed Charles, "I know her, she is our family seamstress. She is a kind-hearted woman about thirty, who limps a little."
"Exactly," said Pichegru, smiling. "The other day she sent me six fine linen shirts which she had made herself. I should like to send her something in return."
"That is a good idea, general."
"But what shall I send? I do not know what would please her."
"Take the advice that the weather itself gives you—buy her a good umbrella. We will use it on the way home. Then I will tell her that you have used it, and it will be all the more precious to her."
"You are right; it will be most useful to her when she goes out. Poor Rose, she has no carriage. Let us go in here."
They were just opposite an umbrella-shop. Pichegru opened and shut ten or twelve, finally selecting a magnificent sky-blue one. He paid thirty-eight francs in paper money at par for it. This was the gift which the first general of the Republic sent to his best friend. The reader will readily understand that I should not have related this incident if it were not historic.