for the Republic outside of Paris?"

"They are. That is," Barabant added, "the masses are done with the king. The Girondins are not so radical."

"H'm!" Dossonville said for all answer. He stood silent a moment, wrapped in his own thoughts, before he again questioned him: "And the Revolution: do you hear such opinions as you heard to-night in the provinces? Is there no sign of a reaction?"

"No; everything is for more radical measures."

With this answer, Dossonville seemed to dismiss the matter from his mind. He looked him over again, and a twinkle showing in his eyes, he asked:

"More enthusiasm than friends, hey?"

Barabant laughed. "True."

"And what are you counting upon doing?"

Barabant remained silent.

"Good—discretion!"

Barabant, determined to shift the inquiry, demanded point-blank:

"What were you doing in a café of aristocrats?"

"What were you?" Dossonville retorted. "There are many ways to serve the Revolution besides proclaiming it from the tops of tables. Leave me my ways. Do you think if I were an aristocrat I'd have taken the pains to save you? Come, young man, don't turn your back on opportunities. Swallow your pride and confess that there are not many more meals in sight."

"I am but a day in Paris," Barabant answered; and then, lest he should seem to have relented: "there are a hundred ways to find a living."

"Can you write? Have you written pamphlets?" Dossonville persisted. "What would you say to a chance to see that fine eloquence caught in black and white and circulating in the streets?"

Barabant's face flushed with such a sudden delight that the other laughingly drew his arm into his and exclaimed:

"Come, I see how it is. Camille Desmoulins is only twenty-nine. It is the age for the youngsters. Only—" He stopped suddenly. "There are many degrees of Republicans nowadays. Does your eloquence run in the line of our valiant radical Marat, or Danton and Desmoulins, or are we of the school of Condorcet and Roland?"

"I am Girondin," Barabant answered.

"Good." He reflected a moment. "Just the place!"

He started on, and then suddenly stopped, as by habit of caution. "No, not to-night. Where do you live?"

"Eugène Barabant, Rue Maugout, No. 38." He drew out two letters. "I have a word of introduction to Roland."

"And the other?"

"To Marat."

"Ah, Marat," Dossonville said, with a sudden cooling. "A strong man that, and very patriotic."

"I do not intend to present it," Barabant said, seeing the change. He hesitated a moment, as though to reveal a confidence, while a smile struggled to his lips. But in the end, resisting the desire, he said evasively, "It is a measure of protection, in case of danger."

Dossonville scrutinized him sharply, and then, as though reassured by the frank visage, he said: "Very well; I'll be around to-morrow night. Try your hand at a polemic or two. Have you a knack of poetry? Satires are more powerful than arguments. A laugh can trip up a colossus."

"I have done a little verse."

"Who hasn't?" He paused. "You will be discreet? Au revoir!"

He turned on his heel, but immediately returned.

"I forgot. One word of advice."

"Well?"

"Revolutions strike only among the steeples. Take my advice: renounce publicity and remain obscure."

"But I had rather die in this age than live through another."

"Well, my duty's done," Dossonville answered, shrugging his shoulders. Then repeating to himself Barabant's last response, he added, "That sounds well; food for the mob; put it down."

And without more ado, he left him as delighted as though he had just been elected to the National Convention.

III
CITOYENNE NICOLE

Toward six o'clock the next morning, when la Mère Corniche and her broom alone were stirring, there appeared at a gabled window that broke through the crust of the roofs, the figure of a young girl, who, after a glance down at the quiet courtyard and the windows void of life, remained to give the final touches to a scattering of golden hair.

The air was still young, and in the skies the multifarious tints of the dawn had not quite faded as the burly sun bobbed up among the distant chimney-tops. She ensconced herself in the window, running her hands with indolent movements through the meshes as though reluctant to leave the flash and play of the sun amid its lusters. She was young and pretty, and she knew it, and, with a frank enjoyment, she let the long locks slip through her fingers or brought them caressingly against her cheek.

Though from her figure she could not have been more than eighteen, yet in the poise of her head and in the subtile smile, full of grace and piquancy, there showed the coquetry of the woman who plans to please the masculine eye.

Suddenly she sprang back, leaving the window vacant. A moment later there emerged opposite the thoughtful face of Barabant. Unaware of her proximity, he swept the courtyard with an indifferent look, and drawing from his pocket the three sous that alone remained to him, he fell into a deep meditation.

Presently the sprightly eyes and mischievous profile of the girl returned, cautiously, as though awaiting a challenge. Then, as in the abstraction of his mood he continued to be oblivious to her presence, she advanced to fuller view.

Gradually her curiosity became excited by an evident conflict in his moods. At one moment he pulled a long, somber face, and at the next he lapsed into laughter. As human nature cannot endure in silence the spectacle of someone laughing to himself, the girl, unable longer to restrain her interest, called to him with that melody which is natural to the voice of a maiden:

"Well, citoyen, are you going to laugh or cry?"

At her banter, Barabant started up so suddenly that one of the sous which he had been regarding meditatively slipped from his fingers, bounded on the roof, rolled along the gutter, and disappeared in the water-hole.

"Diable! there goes my dinner!"

"How so?" the girl said, repressing her laugh at his long face.

"I had three; one for lunch, one for dinner, and one for some purchases I intend to make."

"Dame! citoyen, three are not many sous."

Barabant drew himself up proudly. "Plenty, after to-night."

"When your banker returns?"

"Exactly."

"And I have made you lose your dinner: a bad beginning for neighbors, Citoyen—?"

"Citoyen Eugène Barabant. Citoyenne—?"

"Nicole."

"Nicole—?"

"Heavens, isn't Nicole enough? One name is all we need; besides, it would take me too long to find out the other."

As she said this, she smiled so unaffectedly that Barabant, forgetting the pangs of hunger, looked on admiringly.

"You are a philosopher, Nicole. And what do you do—if it is not indiscreet to ask?"

She understood perfectly the hesitancy, but laughed without a trace of disconcertion.

"Oh, I work hard; I am a bouquetière. Which reminds me, I must be off to the flower-market."

However, she lingered a moment. "And you, citoyen?"

"Traveler," Barabant said, with a superb wave of his hand, and then exploded in laughter at the thought. "Citoyenne, tell me something."

"Speak."

"Have you ever fasted a day?"

"Hundreds of times."

"If you have but one meal in sight, when is the best time to take it?"

"In the middle of the day; something may happen before dinner."

Barabant made a wry