the magnitude of my emotion. A noble indignation makes me dumb.
Theodore, sir, has ever been the cruel thorn that times out of number
hath wounded my over-sensitive heart. Think of it! I had picked him
out of the gutter! No! no! I do not mean this figuratively! I mean
that, actually and in the flesh, I took him up by the collar of his
tattered coat and dragged him out of the gutter in the Rue Blanche,
where he was grubbing for trifles out of the slime and mud. He was
frozen, Sir, and starved--yes, starved! In the intervals of picking
filth up out of the mud he held out a hand blue with cold to the
passers-by and occasionally picked up a sou. When I found him in that
pitiable condition he had exactly twenty centimes between him and
absolute starvation.

And I, Sir Hector Ratichon, the confidant of two kings, three
autocrats and an emperor, took that man to my bosom--fed him, clothed
him, housed him, gave him the post of secretary in my intricate,
delicate, immensely important business--and I did this, Sir, at a
salary which, in comparison with his twenty centimes, must have seemed
a princely one to him.

His duties were light. He was under no obligation to serve me or to be
at his post before seven o'clock in the morning, and all that he had
to do then was to sweep out the three rooms, fetch water from the well
in the courtyard below, light the fire in the iron stove which stood
in my inner office, shell the haricots for his own mess of pottage,
and put them to boil. During the day his duties were lighter still. He
had to run errands for me, open the door to prospective clients, show
them into the outer office, explain to them that his master was
engaged on affairs relating to the kingdom of France, and generally
prove himself efficient, useful and loyal--all of which qualities he