"Yes, father; and I will work for you and support you."
"You are too young and delicate, Victor. We must beg our bread."
"Beg, father?"
"Yes, you shall guide my footsteps. There are good people in the world who will pity my infirmities and your youth. When they see my ragged uniform, they will say, 'There is one of the braves who upheld the honor of France upon the burning sands of Egypt,' and they will not fail to drop a few sous into the old soldier's hat. Come, Victor, we must march. We have been too long a burden on our poor neighbor. Courage, mon enfant, le bon temps viendra."
And so the boy and his father set forth upon their wanderings. Neither asked alms; but when seated by the roadside, under the shadow of an overhanging tree, the passer-by would halt, and bestow a small sum upon the worn and blind soldier. Victor was devoted to his father, and Heaven smiled upon his filial affection. Though denied the society and sports so dear to his youth, he was always cheerful and happy in the accomplishment of his task. Often did his innocent gayety beguile his father into a temporary forgetfulness of his sufferings. Then he would place his hand upon the boy's head, and stroking his soft, curling locks, smile sweetly as his sightless eyes were turned towards him, and commence some stirring narrative of military adventure.
In this way, days, weeks, months, and even years rolled by. They were every where well received and kindly treated; and all their physical wants were supplied. But the old soldier often sighed to think of the burden his misfortunes imposed upon his boy, and of his wearing out his young life without congenial companionship, without instruction, without a future beyond the life of a mendicant. He often prayed in secret that death might liberate, his little guide from his voluntary service.
One day, François was seated alone on a stone by the roadside, Victor having gone to the neighboring village on an errand, when he suddenly heard a carriage stop beside him. The occupant, a man of middle age, alighted, and approached the soldier.
"Your name," said the stranger, "is, I think, François Bertrand."
"The same."
"A soldier of the army of Egypt?"