been there, or Carron, w'at ain' been there?"

"Fidèle, of course."

"Then tell me, w'at for they bounce' our Fidèle, and let Carron got 'is place?" and he burst into a harsh, resonant, contemptuous laugh. In a moment he resumed: "Now," he said, "I only got one more thing to ax you," and taking his felt hat in his hands, he held it on his knees, before him, and stooping a little forward, eyed me closely: "You know w'at we talk sometimes, you an' me, 'bout our Frensh république—some Orléanistes, some Légitimistes, some Bonapartistes? You merember 'ow we talk, you and me?"

I nodded,

"We ain' got no Orléanistes, no Bonapartistes' ici, in this gouvernement, n'est-ce pas?"

I intimated that I had never met any.

"Now," he proceeded, with an increased bitterness in his tone and his hard smile, "I use' thing you one good frien' to me, mais, you been makin' fool of me all that time!"

"You don't think any such thing," I said.

"You know," he went on, "who bounce our Fidèle?"

"No."

Sorel received my reply with a low, incredulous laugh. Then he laid his hat down on the floor, drew his chair closer, held out his finger, and, with the air of one who shows another that he knows his secret he demanded:—

"Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?"

I sat silent for a moment, looking at him, not knowing just what to say.

"Mais," he went on, "all the Américains" (they were chiefly Irish) "roun' my 'ouse been tellin' me, long time, 'Le Boss goin' bounce Fidèle.' Me, I laugh w'en they say so. I say, 'Le Boss? C'est un créature d'imagination, pour nous effrayer,' you know, make us scart 'C'est un loup-garou,' you know,—w'at make 'fraid li'l chil'ren. That's w'at I tell them. I thing then you would n't been makin' fool of me.'

"They don't know what they are talking about," I said. "How can they know why Fidèle is removed?"

"Mais, you jus' wait; I goin' tell you. I fin they do know. Fidèle take he sol'ier-papers, an' he go see le chef" (here Sorel rose, and acted Fidèle). "Fidèle, 'e show 'is papers to le chef; 'e say, 'Now you boun' tell me why le bon gouvernement, w'at 's been my frien', bounce me now.' 'E say le chef boun' to tell 'im,—il faut absolument! 'E say 'e won' go, way if le chef don' tell 'im; an' you know, no man can't scare our Fidèle!"

"Very well," I said; "what did the collector, the chef tell him? Fidèle is too lame, I suppose?"

"Mais, non," with a suspicious smile. "Le chef, he mos' cry,—yas, sar,—an' 'e say 'e ain' got no trouble 'gainst Fidèle; la république, she ain' got no trouble 'gainst Fidèle. 'E say 'e di'n want Fidèle to go; le gouvernement, she d'n want 'im to go. Mais, 'e say, 'e can't help hisself; le gouvernement, she can't help herself. Yas, sar. Then Fidèle know w'at evarybody been tellin' us was true,—'e 'Boss,' 'e make 'im go!" And Sorel sat back in his chair.

"Now, I ax you one time more," he resumed: "qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?"

What could I say! How could I explain, offhand, to this stranger, the big boss, the little boss, the State boss, the ward boss, the county boss, all burrowing underneath our theoretical government! How could I explain to him that Fidèle's department in the custom-house had been allotted to a Congressman about to run for a second term, who needed it to control a few more ward-meetings,—needed, in the third ward caucus, those very French votes which Carron had been shrewd enough to steal away and organize! What could I say to Sorel which he, innocent as he was, would not misconstrue as inconsistent with our past glorifications of our republic! What did I say! I do not know. I only remember that he interrupted me, harshly and abruptly, as he rose to go.

"You an' me got great pitié, ain' we," he said, "for notre France, la pauvre France, 'cause she got so many folks w'at tourbillonnent sous la surface,—les Orléanistes les Bonapartistes; don' we say so? Mais, il n'y en a pas, ici,—you know, we ain' got none here; don' we say so? We ain' got no factionnaires here! Mais non!" Then, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper: "Votre bonne république," he said,—"c'est une république du théâtre!"

He had hardly closed the door behind him, when he opened it again, and put in his head, and with his hard, mocking laugh, demanded, "Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?" And as he walked down the hall, I could still hear his scornful laughter.

He never came to see me again. I sometimes heard of him through Carron, who had succeeded to Fidèle's position and had elevated a considerable part of his following: for several weeks they were employed at three dollars a day in the navy-yard, where, to their utter mystification, they moved, with a certain planetary regularity, ship-timber from the west to the east side of the yard, and then back from the east side to the west. You remember reading about this in the published accounts of our late congressional contest.

Though Sorel never visited me again, I occasionally saw him: once near the evening-school, when I went as a guest; once in the long market; once in the post-office; and once he touched me on the shoulder, as I was leaning over the street railing, by the dock, looking down at a Swedish bark. Each time he had but one thing to say; and having said it, he would break into his harsh, ironical laugh, and pass along:—

"Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?"

And Fidèle?

Still, if you will go to Madeira Place at sunset, you may see the cap and blouse come slowly in. Still the old sergeant sits at the head of the table. But his ideal is gone; his idol has clay feet. No longer does he describe to new-comers from France the receipt of his pension. All the old fond pride in it is gone, and he takes the money now as dollars and cents.

In the conversation, however, around the table the great government at Washington is by no means forgotten. Sometimes Sorel tells his guests about the Boss.