The veteran advances slowly, his hand leaning on the shoulder of the young soldier. His eyes, closed for ever, no longer perceive the sun shining through the flowering chestnut-trees. In the place of his right arm hangs an empty sleeve, and he walks with a wooden leg, the sound of which on the pavement makes those who pass turn to look.
At the sight of this ancient wreck from our patriotic wars, the greater number shake their heads in pity, and I seem to hear a sigh or an imprecation.
"See the worth of glory!" says a portly merchant, turning away his eyes in horror.
"What a deplorable use of human life!" rejoins a young man who carries a volume of philosophy under his arm.
"The trooper would better not have left his plow," adds a countryman, with a cunning air.
"Poor old man!" murmurs a woman, almost crying.
The veteran has heard, and he knits his brow; for it seems to him that his guide has grown thoughtful. The latter, attracted by what he hears around him, hardly answers the old man's questions, and his eyes, vaguely lost in space, seem to be seeking there for the solution of some problem.
I seem to see a twitching in the gray moustaches of the veteran; he stops abruptly, and, holding back his guide with his remaining arm:
"They all pity me," says he, "because they do not understand it; but if I were to answer them—"
"What would you say to them, father?" asks the young man, with curiosity.