And I was left alone, alone ... but this story is
not about me.
So this is the end of my tale of the watch. What
more have I to tell you? Five years after David
was married to his Black-lip, and in 1812, as a lieutenant
of artillery, he died a glorious death on the battlefield
of Borodino in defence of the Shevardinsky redoubt.
Much water has flowed by since then and I have had
many watches; I have even attained the dignity of
a real repeater with a second hand and the days of
the week on it. But in a secret drawer of my writing
table there is preserved an old-fashioned silver watch
with a rose on the face; I bought it from a Jewish
pedlar, struck by its likeness to the watch which
was once presented to me by my godfather. From
time to time, when I am alone and expect no one, I
take it out of the drawer and looking at it remember
my young days and the companion of those days that
have fled never to return.
Paris.—1875.
