[Illustration:  The wagon.]

Joliet, like Democritus and Plato, saw everything with his own eyes, learned everything at first hand.  He was a keen observer, and in our interviews subsequent to the affair of the chickens I was more than once surprised by the extent of his information and the subtlety of his insight.  His wits were tacked on to a number of remote supports.  In our day, when each science has become so complicated, so obese, that a man’s lifetime may be spent in exercising round one of them, there are hardly any generalizers or observers fit to estimate their relativity, except among the two classes called by the world idlers and ignorants—­the poets and the Bohemians.

Joliet, now having joined the ranks of the cavalry, found his account in his new dignity.  He became an orderly, a messenger.  He carried parcels, he transported straw and hay.  If the burden was too heavy for the poor convalescent, the man took his own portion with a good grace, and the two mutually aided each other on the errand.  Thanks to his horse, the void left by his failure to learn a trade was filled up by a daily and regular task:  what was better, an affection had crept into his heart.  He loved his charge, and his charge loved him.

This great hotel, the world, seemed to be promising entertainment then for both man and beast, when an epoch of disaster came along—­a season of cholera.  In the villages where Joliet’s business lay the doors just beginning to be hospitable were promptly shut against him.  Where the good townsmen had recognized Assistance in his person, they now saw Contagion.

[Illustration:  Dinner-time!]

If he had been a single man, he could have lain back and waited for better times.  But he now had two mouths to feed.  He kissed his horse and took a resolution.

He had never been a mendicant.  “Beggars don’t go as hungry as I have gone,” said he.  “But what will you have?  Nobility obliges.  My father was a gentleman.  I have broken stones, but never the devoirs of my order.”

He left the groups of villages among which his new industry had lain.  The cholera was behind him:  trouble, beggary perhaps, was before him.  As night was coming on, Joliet, listlessly leading his horse, which he was too considerate to ride, saw upon the road a woman whom he took in the obscurity for a farmer’s wife of the better class or a decent villager.  For an introduction the opportunity was favorable enough.  On her side, the quasi farmer’s wife, seeing in the dusk an honest fellow dragging a horse, took him for a “gentleman’s gentleman” at the least, and the two accosted each other with that easy facility of which the French people have the secret.  Each presented the other with a hand and a frank smile.

[Illustration:  Fidelity.]

Joliet, whom I have erred perhaps in comparing to Democritus, was nevertheless a laugher and a philosopher.  But his grand ha-ha! usually infectious, was not shared on this occasion.  The wanderer could not show much merriment.  A sewing-woman with a capacity for embroidery, her needle had given her support, but now a sudden warning of paralysis, and symptoms of cholera added to that, had driven her almost to despair.  She was without home, friend or profession.