ten years older, and his refractory lock of hair had become perfectly
white. His Lucie had been the sole joy in his commonplace and obscure
life. She was so pretty, so sweet! such a good manager, dressing upon
nothing, and making things seem luxurious with only one flower!
M. Violette existed only on this dear and cruel souvenir, living his
humble idyll over again in his mind.

He had had six years of this happiness. One of his comrades took him to
pass an evening with an old friend who was captain in the Invalides. The
worthy man had lost an arm at Waterloo; he was a relative of Lucie, a
good-natured old fellow, amiable and lively, delighting in arranging his
apartments into a sort of Bonapartist chapel and giving little
entertainments with cake and punch, while Lucie's mother, a cousin of the
captain, did the honors. M. Violette immediately observed the young
girl, seated under a "Bataille des Pyramides" with two swords crossed
above it, a carnation in her hair. It was in midsummer, and through the
open window one could see the magnificent moonlight, which shone upon the
esplanade and made the huge cannon shine. They were playing charades,
and when it came Lucie's turn to be questioned among all the guests, M.
Violette, to relieve her of her embarrassment, replied so awkwardly that
they all exclaimed, "Now, then, that is cheating!" With what naive grace
and bashful coquetry she served the tea, going from one table to another,
cup in hand, followed by the one-armed captain with silver epaulets,
carrying the plum-cake! In order to see her again, M. Violette paid the
captain visit after visit. But the greater part of the time he saw only
the old soldier, who told him of his victories and conquests, of the
attack of the redoubt at Borodino, and the frightful swearing of the
dashing Murat, King of Naples, as he urged the squadrons on to the
rescue. At last, one beautiful Sunday in autumn, he found himself alone
with the young girl in the private garden of the veteran of the Old