"A daughter also! The dear Lebrenn! If she at all looks like her mother she must be a charming girl—"

"Eh! Eh!—she is slender—she is comely—"

"You must be proud of her. Come, confess it!"

"Zounds! I do not deny it, monsieur. More than that I can not say."

"Strange," thought the Count of Plouernel to himself, "the fellow has a curiously old-fashioned style of expression. It must be something peculiar to St. Denis Street. He puts me in mind of my old steward Robert, who brought me up, and who spoke like the people of the previous century."

The Count proceeded aloud:

"Forsooth! Coming to think of it, I should pay a visit to dear Madam Lebrenn."

"Monsieur, she is at your service."

"You should know that I contemplate giving a tournament soon in the large yard of my barracks, where my dragoons are to go through all manner of exercises on horseback. You must promise me to come some Sunday to the rehearsal with Madam Lebrenn; and I wish you to accept, without any compliments, a little collation after we leave the place."

"Oh, monsieur, that's too much honor to us—you overwhelm me—"

"Never mind that; you are joking; is it agreed?"

"May I bring my boy along?"

"Zounds! Of course!"

"How can you put such a question to me, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn?"

"Indeed, monsieur? You won't object if my daughter—"

"Better still! I have an idea, my dear man; an excellent idea!"

"What is it, monsieur?"

"Did you ever hear of the tourneys of olden days?"

"Tourneys, monsieur?"

"Yes, in the days of chivalry."

"I beg your pardon, monsieur; plain people like us—"

"Well, dear Monsieur Lebrenn, in the days of chivalry, tourneys were held, and at those tourneys several of my ancestors, whom you see there," and he waved his hand towards the pictures, "took a hand."

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the merchant, affecting great surprise, and following with his eyes in the direction pointed by the colonel, "I was thinking to myself, there is something of a family resemblance."

"You think so?"

"I do, monsieur—I beg your pardon for the great liberty—"

"Oh, monsieur! That is too much! Oh, it is too much! Moreover, do you not think that for a young girl—to be in that way—in plain view—vis-a-vis to messieurs your dragoons—is a little—I beg your pardon for the great liberty—but it is a little—what shall I say?—a little—"

"Dismiss all such scruples, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn. The noblest dames were in olden days chosen as the Queens of Beauty at the tourney. They even gave a kiss to the victor, on his mouth."

"I understand that—they were accustomed thereto—while my daughter—you see—confound it!—she is only eighteen, and has been brought up—like a bourgeois girl."

"You need not feel uneasy on that score. I never thought for a moment that your daughter should give the victor a kiss."

"That is good, monsieur! How kind you are! And if you will also consent that my daughter do not embrace—"

"That goes without saying, my dear monsieur. You do not need my consent. I am too happy, as it is, to have you and also your family, accept my invitation."

"Oh, monsieur, all the honor is on our side!"

"Not at all, it is on my side!"

"Surely not! Surely not, monsieur! You are too kind! I can clearly see that you mean to bestow great honor upon us."

"It is only a matter of conscience, monsieur. Only a matter of conscience."

"That I said to myself on the spot—This Monsieur Lebrenn must be an admirable, an honest man. I would like to be pleasant to him—even to oblige him, if I can."

"Oh, monsieur, I know not how to express to you—"

"Come, you told me a minute ago that business was poor—would you like me to pay you in advance for my order?"

"Oh, no, no, no, monsieur; that is unnecessary."

"Do not be bashful! Be frank. The amount is large—I shall give you an order upon my banker."

"I assure you, monsieur, that I do not need payment in advance."

"Times are so hard yet."

"Very hard, indeed, the times are; that's true, monsieur; we must hope for better."

"Admit it, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn," said the Count, again pointing to the pictures that ornamented the walls of the salon, "the times in which those redoubtable seigneurs lived, were the real good times!"

"Truly so, monsieur."

"And who knows! Perhaps those better times may come back again!"

"Indeed! Do you think so?"

"Monsieur, I do not indulge myself so far. You understand, a merchant—"

"Oh, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn! You are a man of the good old pattern; that's what you are; I'm glad of it! Right you are not to meddle in politics! It is the silly mania that spoiled everything. In those good old times, that I was speaking about to you, nobody grumbled. The King, the clergy and the nobility ordered—and everybody obeyed without saying a word."

"Sure! Sure! It must have been very convenient, monsieur."

"Zounds! I should say so!"

"If I understand you rightly, monsieur, the King, the priests and the seigneurs said: 'Do that!'—and it was done?"

"Just so!"

"Pay!—and people paid?"

"Exactly."

"Go!—and people went?"

"Why! Yes! Yes!"

"In short, everything as on the parade ground—to the right!—to the left!—forward!—double quick! People did not even have the trouble to will this or that? The King, the seigneurs and the clergy took to themselves the trouble of willing for us? And they have changed that! They have changed all that!!!"

"Fortunately we need not despair, my dear Monsieur Lebrenn."

"So, then, next Sunday—at the tournament. You will come, my good fellow—you—your family—agreed?"

"Certainly, monsieur, certainly. My daughter will not fail to attend the festivity—seeing she is to be the queen of—of?"

"Queen of Beauty, my dear fellow! It is not I who assign the role to her—it is Nature!"

"Oh, monsieur, if you would only allow me—"

"What?"

"To repeat in your name to my daughter the gallantries that you have uttered about her."

"Why, my dear fellow, not only do I authorize you to do so, but I request you. Moreover, without further ceremony, I shall myself carry to Madam Lebrenn and her charming daughter the invitation that I extend to them."

"Oh, monsieur—the poor women—they will feel so flattered by your good will towards us. I shall say nothing about myself; if I were to receive the Cross of Honor I could not feel prouder."

"You are a first class fellow, my dear Lebrenn!"

"Your servant, monsieur, your servant with all my heart," repeated the merchant, moving away.

The moment, however, that the linendraper reached the door, he seemed to change his mind, scratched himself behind the ear, and returned to the Count of Plouernel.

"The matter is," said the merchant, continuing to scratch the back of his ear, "meseems a thought strikes me—I beg your pardon for the great liberty—"

"Zounds! Speak up! Why should you not have an idea—as well as anybody else?"

"That's true, monsieur, it sometimes happens that the common people, like the noble folks, do not desiderate—ideas."

"Do not desiderate—what the devil does that word mean? I do not remember ever to have heard it."

"It is a good, square, old word, monsieur, which means to lack. Moliere often uses it."

"How, Moliere!" exclaimed the astonished Count. "Do you read Moliere, my good fellow? Indeed, I did notice, while you were speaking, that you often used old turns of expression."

"I shall tell you why, monsieur: When I noticed that you spoke to me in the style that Don Juan uses to Monsieur Dimanche, or Dorante to Monsieur Jourdain—"

"What are you driving at?" put in the Count of Plouernel, more and more taken aback, and beginning to suspect that the merchant was not quite so simple as he seemed. "What do you mean?"

"What!" cried the Count, utterly disconcerted by this brusque apostrophe. "I do not know—I do not understand what you mean—"

"Oh, monsieur! I am but a plain man—I can only speak as my little judgment dictates."

"Your little judgment! It serves you very poorly. Upon my honor, you are crazy! Your idea lacks common sense."

"Indeed? Oh, well, so much the better! I said to myself, follow closely, if you please, my plain way of reasoning—I said to myself: I am a good bourgeois of St. Denis Street; I sell linen; I have a handsome daughter; a young seigneur—because it does seem we are returning to the days of young seigneurs—has seen my daughter; he covets her; he gives me a large order; he adds offers of service, and, under the pretext—"

"Monsieur Lebrenn—there are jokes I do not tolerate from people!"

"I agree—but follow closely my plain way of reasoning, if you please, monsieur: The young seigneur, I said to myself, proposes to give a tournament in honor of my daughter's pretty eyes, and to come frequently to see us, all with the only end in view, by thus playing the good Prince, to succeed in seducing my child."

"Monsieur," cried the Count, growing purple with vexation and rage, "by what right do you allow yourself to impute such intentions to me?"

"Enough, monsieur, enough!"

"Good! Good! You did not—I shall suppose you did not, and I feel better at ease. Otherwise, you see, I would have been compelled to say to you, humbly, respectfully, as becomes poor people of my class: Pardon me, my young seigneur, for the great freedom that I am taking, but you see, the daughters of the good bourgeois are not to be seduced in that way. Since about fifty years ago, that sort of thing can no longer be done, not at all, absolutely not. Monsieur Duke, or Monsieur Marquis still calls the bourgeois, men and women, of St. Denis Street rather familiarly dear Monsieur Thing, dear Madam Thing, looking, with habitual race conceit, upon the bourgeoisie as an inferior species. But, zounds! To go further than that would no longer be prudent! The bourgeois of St. Denis Street are no longer afraid, as once they were, of lettres de cachet to the Bastille. And if Monsieur Duke, or Monsieur Marquis took it into his head to be discourteous to them—to them or to their family—bless my soul! the bourgeois of St. Denis Street might bestow a thorough drubbing—pardon me, monsieur, for this great freedom—I said, might administer a thorough drubbing to Monsieur Marquis or Monsieur Duke—even if he were of royal or imperial lineage."

"No, monsieur," calmly answered Lebrenn, dropping his tone of banter and proceeding in firm and dignified accents; "no, monsieur; it is not a threat, it is a lesson I am giving you."

"A lesson!" cried the Count of Plouernel, furious with rage. "A lesson! to me!"

"Monsieur, despite all your race prejudice, you are a man of honor—swear to me upon your honor that, in endeavoring to introduce yourself into my house, that in tendering your services to me, it was not your intention to seduce my daughter! Yes, swear to that upon your honor, and, admitting my mistake, I shall retract all I said."

Thrown out of countenance by the alternative offered to him, the Count of Plouernel blushed, lowered his eyes before the steady gaze of the linendraper, and remained silent.

"Oh!" said the linendraper sorrowfully, as if musing to himself, but loud enough to be heard by the Count of Plouernel. "They are incorrigible; they have forgotten nothing, learned nothing; we still are in their estimation a vanquished, conquered, subject race!"

"Monsieur!"

"Well, monsieur! I know my ground! No longer do we live in the days when, after having violated my daughter, you would have ordered me whipped with switches, and hanged afterwards before the gate of your castle, as was the practice in former centuries—and as was done to one of my own ancestors by that seigneur yonder—"

"The matter looked quite simple to you," the merchant proceeded, "the notion of taking my daughter for your mistress. I am no longer your slave, your serf, your vassal, your chattel; playing the good Prince, you graciously condescended to have me take a chair, and you even addressed me patronizingly—'Dear Monsieur Lebrenn.' There are Counts no longer, still you carry your title and the coat-of-arms of a Count. Civil equality has been declared, and yet nothing would seem more monstrous to you than to marry your daughter or your sister to a bourgeois or a mechanic, whatever their worthiness and the honorable character that they might bear. Would you dare to gainsay my words? No; you might, perhaps, cite some exception, it would be but a fresh proof that such unions remain misalliances in your eyes. Trifles, you may say; they certainly are trifles—but what a grave symptom the attaching of so much importance to trifles is! You and yours, were you to become all-powerful in the nation to-morrow, would fatedly and necessarily, as happened under the Restoration, seek by little and little to re-establish your ancient privileges, which, from being trivial, would then become hateful, disgraceful and oppressive to us, as they were for centuries hateful, disgraceful and oppressive to our ancestors."

"I doubt not, monsieur, that the moral of the beautiful lesson in history which you have had the kindness to read to me in your capacity of linendraper probably is that the priests and nobles should be sent to the lamp-post—as was the fashion in the good old days of 1793, and our daughters and sisters married to the nearest valet at hand."

"Oh, monsieur," said the merchant in a tone of lofty sorrow, "let us not mention reprisals. Forget what your fathers suffered during those ominous years—I, on my part, will forget what our ancestors suffered, at the hands of yours, and, not during a few years, but during FIFTEEN CENTURIES OF TORMENT! Marry your daughters and sisters as it may please you, it is your right; believe in misalliances, that is your affair. These are facts that I mention; and, as a symptom, I repeat it, they are grave; they prove that, in your estimation, there are and ever will be two distinct races in the land."

"And supposing it is so, monsieur, what business is it of yours how we look upon things?"

"And it returns the compliment to yours."

The linendraper's voice and accent were so impressive that, although not convinced, the Count of Plouernel was touched by his words. His indomitable race pride struggled with his impulse to acknowledge to the merchant that he at least saw in him a generous adversary.

That moment the door was abruptly thrown open by an officer, the major-adjutant of the Count's regiment, who, rushing in, hastily made the military salute and said hurriedly:

"I beg your pardon, colonel, for coming in without being announced, but orders have just been issued to have the regiment mount horse forthwith, and remain ready for action on the square of the quarter."

The linendraper was about to leave the salon when the Count of Plouernel said to him:

"Well, monsieur, to judge by the course things are taking, together with your republican opinions, it is quite possible that I may have the honor of meeting you to-morrow on a barricade."

"I know not what may happen, monsieur," answered the linendraper; "but I neither fear nor desire such an encounter."

And then, with a smile, he added:

"I think, monsieur, that the order for linen may be canceled."

While Marik Lebrenn was holding the conversation, just reported, with the Count of Plouernel, the merchant's wife and daughter were, as was their custom, busy in the shop, over which hung the sign—The Sword of Brennus.

While her daughter was engaged with her needle, Madam Lebrenn saw to the books of the establishment. She was a tall woman of forty. Her face, at once serious and kind, preserved the traces of extraordinary beauty. In the cadence of her voice, her carriage, and her countenance there was a certain calmness and firmness that conveyed a high opinion of her nature. A glance at her was enough to remind one that our mothers, the Gallic women, took part in the councils of the nation on critical occasions, and that such was the valor of those matrons that Diodorus Siculus expresses himself in these terms:

"The women of Gaul vie with the men not in tallness only, they also match them by their moral strength."

And Strabo adds these significant words:

"The Gallic women are fertile and good teachers."

While Madam Lebrenn was casting up her accounts and her daughter sewed, occasionally exchanging a few words with her mother, Gildas Pakou, the shop-boy, stood at the door. The youngster was uneasy and greatly disturbed in mind, so very much disturbed that it never occurred to him, as was otherwise his wont, to recite promiscuously favorite passages from his beloved Breton songs.

The worthy fellow was preoccupied with just one thought—the strange contrast that he found between the reality and his mother's promises, she having informed him that St. Denis Street in general, and the house of Monsieur Lebrenn in particular, were particularly quiet and peaceful spots.

Gildas suddenly turned about and said to Madam Lebrenn in a high state of alarm:

"Madam! Madam! Listen!"

"What is it, Gildas?" asked Madam Lebrenn, proceeding unperturbed to make her entries in the large ledger.

"But, madam, it is the drum! Listen! Besides—Oh, good God!—I see some men running!"

"What of it, Gildas," returned Madam Lebrenn; "let them run."

"Jeanike," Madam Lebrenn called out to the maid servant, "Monsieur Lebrenn's National Guard uniform must be got ready. He may want it on his return home."

"Yes, madam, I shall see to it," answered Jeanike, going to the rear room.

"Gildas," Madam Lebrenn proceeded, "can you see the St. Denis Gate from where you are?"

"Yes, madam," answered Gildas, all in a tremble; "would you want me to go there?"

"No; be at ease; only let me know whether there is much of a crowd gathering at that end of the street."

"Oh! yes, madam," answered Gildas, craning his neck. "It looks like an ant-hill. Oh, good God! Madam! Madam! Oh, my God!"

"What is it now, Gildas?"

"Oh, madam! Down there—the drums—they were about to turn the corner—"

"Well?"

"A lot of men in blouses stopped them—they have broken the drums. Listen! Madam! Look! The whole crowd is running this way. Do you hear them screaming, madam? Should we not close the shop?"

"It is very evident, Gildas, you are none too brave," said Mademoiselle Lebrenn without raising her eyes from her needlework.

"Monsieur Lebrenn, madam?"

"This is his place."

"I have here four bales for him."

"Linen, I suppose?" asked Madam Lebrenn.

"Well, madam, I think so," answered the messenger with a smile.

"Gildas," she resumed, addressing the good fellow, who was casting ever more uneasy glances into the street, "help monsieur carry the bales to the rear of the shop."

The messenger and Gildas raised the bales out of the barrow. They were long and thick rolls, and were wrapped in coarse grey cloth.

"This must be fiercely close-packed linen," remarked Gildas as, with great effort, he was helping the barrowman to carry in the last of the four rolls. "This thing is as heavy as lead."

"Do you really think so, my friend?" said the man in the blouse, fixedly looking at Gildas, who modestly lowered his eyes and blushed.

The barrowman thereupon addressed himself to Madam Lebrenn, saying:

"There, my errand is done, madam. I must, above all things, recommend to you that the bales be kept in a dry place, and no fire near, until Monsieur Lebrenn arrives. That linen is very—very delicate."

"You must have had work to wheel those bales here all alone," remarked Madam Lebrenn kindly; and opening the drawer in which she kept the small change, she took out a ten-sou piece, which she pushed over the desk to the barrowman. "Take this for your pains."

"Thank you very much, madam," answered the man, smiling. "I have been paid."

"A messenger thanks very much, and refuses a tip!" said Gildas to himself. "A puzzling—a very puzzling house this is!"

Herself considerably surprised at the manner in which the barrowman formulated his declination, Madam Lebrenn raised her eyes and saw a man of about thirty years, of an agreeable face, and who, an exceptional thing with package carriers, had remarkably white hands, carefully trimmed nails, and a neat gold ring on his little finger.

"Could you tell me, monsieur," asked the merchant's wife, "whether the excitement in Paris is on the increase?"

He went out, took his handbarrow and wheeled it rapidly away.

On hearing of artillerymen stationed in the neighborhood with lighted fuses in hand, Gildas was overwhelmed with a fresh flood of misgivings. Nevertheless, rocked between fear and curiosity, he risked another peep into the fearful St. Denis Street, which lay so near to the artillery station.

At the moment that Gildas stretched his neck outside of the shop again, the young girl who had taken breakfast with the Count of Plouernel that very morning, and who improvised such giddy-headed ditties, emerged from the alley of the house where George Duchene lodged, and which, as was stated before, stood opposite the linendraper's shop.

"A puzzling town this is, where, not far from the artillery where fuses are held lighted, young girls come to devour shop-boys with their eyes!"

He noticed that Pradeline crossed the street once more and stepped into a neighboring cafe.

"The unfortunate girl! She surely means to drown her disappointment in several glasses of wine. If she does she will be capable of coming out again and pursuing me straight into the shop. Good God! What would Madam Lebrenn and mademoiselle think of that!"

A new incident cut short, for a while, the chaste apprehensions of Gildas. A four-wheeled truck, drawn by a strong horse, and containing three large, flat chests about two meters high and inscribed Glass, drew up before the shop. The vehicle was in charge of two men in blouses. One of these, named Dupont, was the same who had been to the shop early that morning in order to recommend to Monsieur Lebrenn not to inspect his supply of grain. The other wore a thick grey beard. They alighted from their seat, and Dupont, the driver, stepping into the shop, greeted Madam Lebrenn and said:

"Has Monsieur Lebrenn not yet returned, madam?"

"No, monsieur."

"Very well, monsieur," answered Madam Lebrenn. And calling Gildas, she added:

"Help these gentlemen to bring in the looking glasses."

The shop-assistant obeyed, saying to himself:

"A puzzling house! Three chests with looking glasses—and so heavy! Master, his wife and daughter must be very fond of looking at themselves!"

Dupont and his grey-bearded companion had helped Gildas to place the chests in the room behind the shop, as directed by Madam Lebrenn, when she said to them:

"What is the news, messieurs? Is the agitation in Paris subsiding?"

"On the contrary, madam, 'tis getting hotter—and still hotter," answered Dupont with barely concealed satisfaction. "They have commenced to throw up barricades in the St. Antoine quarter. To-night the preparations—to-morrow, battle."

Hardly had Dupont uttered these words, when a formidable clamor was heard from the distance, the words "Long live the Reform!" being distinctly audible.

Gildas ran to the door.

"Let's hurry," said Dupont to his companion. "Our truck may be taken for the center of a barricade; it would be premature—we have still several errands to attend to;" and bowing to Madam Lebrenn, he added, "Our regards to your husband, madam."

Gildas had closely followed with his eyes and with renewed uneasiness the new concourse of people near the St. Denis Gate. Suddenly he saw Pradeline emerge from the cafe which she had entered a few minutes before, and direct her steps towards the shop, holding a letter in her hand.

"What a persistent minx! She has been writing to me!" thought Gildas. "The wretched woman is bringing me the letter herself! A declaration! I am going to be disgraced in the eyes of my employers!"

The bewildered Gildas stepped in quickly, closed the door, turned the key, and cuddled up quiet as a mouse close to the desk.

"Well," said Madam Lebrenn, "why do you lock the door, Gildas?"

"Madam, it is more prudent. I saw coming up from down below a band of men—whose frightful faces—"

"Go to, Gildas, you are losing your head! Open the door."

"But madam—"

"Do as I tell you. Listen, there is someone trying to come in. Open the door."

"It is that devil of a girl with her letter," thought Gildas to himself, more dead than alive. "Oh, why did I leave my quiet little village of Auray!"

Madam Lebrenn was agreeably surprised at seeing her son, whom she did not expect, thinking he was at the College. Velleda tenderly embraced her brother, while the merchant himself pressed the hand of his wife.

The resolute carriage of Sacrovir Lebrenn suggested the thought that he was worthy of bearing the glorious name of the hero of ancient Gaul, one of the greatest patriots of the land recorded in history.

Marik Lebrenn's son was a strapping lad of slightly over nineteen years. He had an open, kind and bold countenance. A sprouting beard shaded his lip and chin. His full cheeks were rosy, and looked bright with animation. He very much resembled his father.

Madam Lebrenn embraced her son, saying:

"I did not expect the pleasure, son, of seeing you here to-day."

"I went to the College for him," explained the merchant. "You will presently know the reason, my dear Henory."

"Oh! Mother," cried Sacrovir with eyes that sparkled with enthusiasm, "Paris has the fever—it follows that all hearts must be beating more strongly. Without knowing one another, people look for and understand at a glance. On all the streets the words you hear are ardent, patriotic appeals to arms. In short, it smells of gunpowder. Oh, mother! mother!" added the young man with exaltation, "what a beautiful sight is the awakening of a people!"

"Keep cool, enthusiast that you are!" said Madam Lebrenn.

And with her handkerchief she wiped the perspiration that stood in drops on her son's forehead. In the meantime Monsieur Lebrenn embraced his daughter.

"Gildas," the merchant called out to his clerk, "some chests must have been brought in during my absence."

"Yes, monsieur, linen bales and looking glasses. They have been deposited in the rear room."

"Very well—they can remain there. Be careful no fire comes near the bales."

"They must be inflammable stuff like bolting-cloth, muslin or gauze," Gildas thought to himself, "and yet they are heavy as lead—another puzzling thing!"

"Close up the shop! Oh, monsieur, I think you are very right!" cried Gildas delightedly. "I thought so long ago."

And as he ran to execute the orders of his employer, the latter said to him:

"Stop a moment, Gildas. Do not close the front door. I expect several people to call for me. If they come take them to the rear room and notify me."

"Yes, monsieur," answered Gildas with a sigh, seeing he would have preferred to see the shop closed tight, and the door protected with its good strong iron bars, and bolted from within.

"And now, my dear," Lebrenn proceeded to say to his wife, "we shall go up to your room."

It was by this time almost dark. The merchant's family mounted to the first floor, and gathered in Madam Lebrenn's bedroom. The merchant then addressed his wife in a grave voice:

"My dear Henory, we are on the eve of great events."

"I believe it, my friend," answered Madam Lebrenn thoughtfully.

"I shall tell you in a few words how the situation has shaped itself to-day," proceeded Lebrenn. "Then judge whether my plan is good or bad; oppose it, if you disapprove, or encourage me if you approve."

Monsieur Lebrenn proceeded:

"After having carried on their agitation in France during three months by means of reform banquets, the deputies yesterday summoned the people to the street. Heart seemed to have failed the intrepid agitators at the last moment. They did not dare to appear at the rendezvous which they themselves had set. The people came in order to maintain their right of assemblage and to run their own business. It is now rumored that the King has appointed a cabinet out of the leaders of the dynastic center. This concession does not satisfy us. What we want, what the people want, is the total overthrow of the monarchy; we want the Republic, which means sovereignty for all—political rights for all—in order to insure education, wellbeing, work, and credit to all, provided we are brave and honest. That is our program, wife! Is it right or wrong?"

"Right!" answered Madam Lebrenn in a tone of firm conviction. "It is right!"

"It is right! Serfdom and even slavery have in reality perpetuated themselves down to our own days," answered Madam Lebrenn with indignation. "It is right! I am a woman, and I have seen women, the slaves of an insufficient wage, die by degrees, exhausted by excessive toil and want. It is right! I am a mother, I have seen young girls, the virtual slaves of certain manufacturers, forced to choose between dishonor and enforced idleness, which means hunger. It is right! I am a wife, and I have seen fathers of families, honest, industrious and intelligent traders, the slaves and victims of the whim or the usurious cupidity of their seigneurs the large capitalists, suffer bankruptcy, and be plunged into ruin and despair. Finally, your resolution is good and just, my friend," added Madam Lebrenn, extending her hand to her husband, "because, if you have hitherto been fortunate enough to escape many a snare, it is your duty to go to the assistance of those of our brothers who are afflicted with misfortunes that we remain exempt from."

"Brave and generous woman! You redouble my strength and courage," said the merchant, pressing Madam Lebrenn's hand in ecstacy. "I expected no less from you. But just as are the rights that we demand for our brothers, they will have to be conquered by force, arms in hand."

"I believe it, my friend."

"Yes," answered Madam Lebrenn. "Your son's place is at your side."

"Oh, thank you, mother!" cried the young man, joyously embracing his mother, who clasped him to her breast.

"Look at him, father," said Velleda to the merchant with a smile and nodding toward Sacrovir, "he looks as happy as if he were graduated."

"But tell me, my friend," asked Madam Lebrenn, addressing the merchant, "will the barricade, on which you and my son are to fight, be near our place? on this street?"

"It will be at our very door," answered Lebrenn. "Agreed?"

"All the better!" exclaimed Madam Lebrenn. "We shall be there—near you."

"Mother," interjected Velleda, "should we not prepare lint to-night, and bandages? There will be many wounded."

"I was thinking of that, my child. Our shop will serve as field-hospital."

"Oh, mother! Sister!" cried the young man. "We are to fight—and under your very eyes—for liberty! How that will inspire us! Alas," he added after a moment's reflection, "why should this be, this fratricidal duel?"

"Thank God, at least in our days the struggle takes place without hatred," replied the young man. "The soldier fights in the name of discipline—the people in the name of their rights. It is a deadly duel, but a loyal one, after which the surviving adversaries shake hands."

"But seeing these are survivers only, and I or my son may be laid low on the barricade," replied Monsieur Lebrenn with a benign smile, "there is one thing more I wish to impress upon you, my children. As you will see, where others turn pale with fright we will smile with serenity. Why? Because death does not exist for us; because, brought up in the belief of our fathers, instead of seeing in what is called the close of life only a dismal and fear-inspiring ending that plunges us into eternal darkness we see in death only the severance of the soul from the body, which emancipates the former, leaving it free to rejoin, or to wait for the sooner or later arrival of, those whom we love, and reunite with them on the other side of the veil, which, during our terrestrial life, hides from us the marvelous, the dazzling mysteries of our future lives, infinite lives as various as the divine power from which they emanate. To us, death is but a new birth."

"That is the picture I have of death," cried Sacrovir. "I feel sure I will die overmastered by curiosity. What new, wonderful, dazzling worlds there will be to visit!"

"Go to, you inquisitive girl! Be not so impatient," answered Madam Lebrenn, smiling, and in a tone of affectionate reproach. "You know, when you were small, I always scolded you when, at your drawing lessons, you seemed to give less thought to the model that you were copying than to those that you were to copy later. Well, my dear child, do not allow your curiosity, however natural it may be, to ascertain what is on the other side of the curtain, as your father expresses it, to cause your mind to wander too much away from that which is on this side."

"Oh, you may be easy, mother, on that score!" answered the young girl affectionately. "On this side of the curtain are you and father and brother—quite enough to keep my mind from wandering."

Velleda colored slightly, realizing that it referred to her marriage.

"As to you, my boy," proceeded the merchant, addressing his son, "take this key," and he detached it from his watch chain. "It is the key of the room with the closed windows which, until now, only your mother and I have entered. On the 11th of September of next year you will be twenty-one years of age. On that day, but not before, open the door. Among other things you will find a manuscript in the cabinet. It will impart to you the information of the immemorial tradition of our family—because," added Lebrenn interrupting himself with a smile, "we plebeians, we of the conquered race, we also have our archives, proletarian archives, often as glorious, you may believe me, as those of our conquerors. You will then learn, as I was saying, that, obedient to a family tradition, at the age of twenty-one the eldest son or, in default of a son, the eldest daughter, or our nearest of kin is to acquaint himself with our family archives and several relics that are gathered with them. And now, my loved ones," added Lebrenn in a moved voice, rising and throwing his arms around his wife and children, "a last embrace. Before to-morrow's sun goes down, we may be temporarily separated; the possibility of a separation ever saddens one a little."

The touching group, a symbol of the family, remained silent for a few moments. Only the sound of exchanging kisses was heard. Their emotion once calmed, the group separated; heads were again held up serene, though affected: the mother and daughter grave and serious; the father and son tranquil and resolute.

"And now," resumed the merchant, "to work, my children. You, wife, will see to getting lint and bandages ready, with the help of your daughter and Jeanike. Sacrovir and I, while waiting for the hour when the barricades are to be simultaneously thrown up all over Paris, will unpack the cartridges and arms which a large number of our brothers will call for."

"But where are the arms, my friend?" inquired Madam Lebrenn.

"The chests," answered the merchant smiling, "the chests and bales that came in to-day."

"Oh, I now understand!" exclaimed Madam Lebrenn. "But you will have to take Gildas into your confidence. He is, no doubt, an honest lad. Still, do you not fear—"

The merchant and his family descended back into the shop and went to supper in the rear room, where their meal was hastily despatched.

The agitation grew intenser on the street with every minute. From the distance the muffled rumbling could be heard of large surging masses. It sounded threateningly, like the distant blast of an approaching storm. A few windows on the street were lighted in honor of the change of Cabinet officers. But some friends of Monsieur Lebrenn's, who came in and went out again several times to bring tidings of what was afoot, reported that the royal concessions were interpreted as a sign of weakness, that the night would be decisive, that everywhere the people were arming themselves by entering certain appointed houses and demanding guns, after which they would take their departure, leaving on the door an inscription in chalk—"Arms delivered."

After supper, Madam Lebrenn, her daughter and the maid returned upstairs to the first floor, into a room that faced the street. The merchant, his son and Gildas remained in the rear of the shop.

Gildas was gifted by nature with a robust appetite; nevertheless, he did not partake of supper. His uneasiness grew at every instant; with more insistence than ever he whispered to Jeanike, or muttered to himself:

"Gildas," called Lebrenn, "fetch me a couple of hammers and chisels. My son and I shall open these cases, while you may rip up the bales."

"The bales of linen, monsieur?"

"Yes—rip them open with your knife."

Furnished with hammers and chisels, the merchant and Sacrovir began to pry open the chests, while Gildas, who had rolled one of the bales flat on the floor, knelt down beside it and made ready to cut it open.

"Monsieur!" he suddenly cried, frightened by the hard blows that Lebrenn was dealing to the chest with his hammer. "Monsieur! If it please you, take care—look at the lettering on the chests—glass! You will break the looking-glasses to pieces!"

"Do not be frightened, Gildas," answered his employer, "these looking glasses are of solid material."

"They are plated with lead and iron, my friend Gildas," added Sacrovir, striking still more heavily.

"More and more puzzling!" muttered Gildas to himself as he again went down on his knees beside one of the bales in order to rip it open. In order to furnish himself with more light at his work he took a candle, and placed it upon the floor beside him. He was just about to remove the heavy outer wrappage of coarse grey burlap when Monsieur Lebrenn, who only then noticed the illumination which his shop-assistant had provided himself with, cried out:

"Blow us all up!" echoed Gildas, terror-stricken, and he bounded away from the bale, while Sacrovir himself placed the candle on the table. "What should blow us up?"

"The cartridges, my lad, which these bales contain. You must look out what you are doing."

"Cartridges!" ejaculated the amazed Gildas, stepping still further back, and more and more overcome with fear, while his employer took out two guns from the chest which he had just opened, and his son drew from the same receptacle several braces of pistols, muskets and carbines.

At the sight of these weapons, and knowing himself surrounded by cartridges, the head of Gildas swam, he grew pale, and leaning against a table again muttered to himself:

"A puzzling house, this! Its bales of linen are filled with cartridges! Its looking glasses turn into guns and muskets and pistols!"

When, attracted by the growing tumult, Monsieur Lebrenn, his son and Gildas reached the door of the shop, the street was already filled with a large crowd.

Windows were flying open and inquisitive heads appeared at them. Presently a flickering reddish glare lighted the house fronts. A vast and swelling flood of people was rushing by. Some preceded, others accompanied the sinister illumination. The uproar grew more and more violent. Now and then, rising above the din, the angry cries could be heard:

"To arms!" "Vengeance!"

Exclamations of horror kept chorus with the cries. Women, who, attracted by the noise, looked out of their windows, recoiled with horror as if anxious to escape the sight of some frightful vision.

Their hearts gripped with apprehension, and drops of sweat standing out upon their foreheads, the linendraper and his son realized that some horrible spectacle was approaching, and remained motionless upon their threshold.

An innumerable mass of men in blouses, in bourgeois dress and also in the uniform of the National Guard, and brandishing guns, swords, knives and sticks, preceded a cart, that was slowly drawn by a horse, and that was surrounded by a number of men bearing torches.

In the cart lay heaped up a mass of corpses.

A tall man with a scarlet hat on his head, naked from the waist up, and his breast bleeding from a recent wound, stood erect in the front part of the cart, carrying aloft a burning flambeau, which he waved to right and left.

He might have been taken for the genius of Vengeance and of Revolution.

At each movement of his flambeau, he lighted with a ruddy glare to the left of him the bloodstained head of an old man, to the right the bust of a woman whose arms, like her bleeding head, half veiled by her disheveled hair, dangled down over the edge of the cart.

From time to time the man with the scarlet hat waved his torch and cried out in stentorian tones:

"They are butchering our brothers! Vengeance! To the barricades! To arms!"

And thousands of voices, trembling with indignation and rage, repeated:

"Vengeance! To the barricades! To arms!"

Whereupon thousands of arms, some equipped with weapons, others not, rose up toward the somber and threatening sky as if to take it to witness of the vengeful pledges.

Hardly had the cart of corpses disappeared when Lebrenn seized one of the iron bars, used to fasten the shop window from within, brandished it over his head, and cried out to the indignant mass of people who were trooping by:

"Friends! Royalty throws us the gage of battle by butchering our brothers! Let the blood of the victims fall upon the head of that accursed royalty! To the barricades! Long live the Republic!"

Immediately the merchant and his son tore up the first paving stones. The man's words and example produced a magic effect. From a thousand throats the answer came back:

"To arms! To the barricades! Long live the Republic!"

The next moment the people had invaded the neighboring houses, everywhere demanding arms, and levers and crowbars to tear up the pavement. Soon as the first row of cobblestones was removed, those who had neither iron bars, nor sticks, pulled up the pavement with their bare hands and nails.

Among these new recruits were the barrowman and the two truckmen who had brought the arms and munitions to the shop in the course of the afternoon. Dupont, who had driven the truck, was a mechanic; of the other two, one was a man of letters, the other an eminent scientist.

George Duchene approached Lebrenn as the latter, having stopped working on the barricade for a moment, stood at the door of his shop distributing arms and ammunition among the men of his own quarter upon whom he felt sure he could rely, while Gildas, the previous poltroonery of whom had been transformed into heroism from the instant the sinister cart of corpses passed before him, emerged from the cellar with several baskets of wine, which he poured out to the men at work at the barricade, to steel them to their task.

Clad in his blouse, George carried a carbine in his hand and a bunch of cartridges tied up in a handkerchief hanging from his belt. He said to the merchant:

"And the troops, George?"

"Several regiments fraternize with the National Guard and the people, and join in the shouts of 'Long live the Reform!' 'Down with Louis Philippe!' On the other hand, the Municipal Guard and two or three regiments of the line show themselves hostile to the movement."

"Poor soldiers!" observed the merchant sadly. "They, like ourselves, are under the identical and fatal spell that arms brothers against one another. Well, let us hope this struggle will be the last. And your grandfather, George; did you succeed in making him feel at ease?"

"Yes, monsieur; I just come from him. Despite his great age and weakness, he wanted to accompany me. I finally managed to induce him to stay indoors."

"My wife and daughter are yonder," said the merchant, pointing toward the lattices on the first floor, through which the gleam of a lighted lamp could be seen. "They are busy preparing bandages and lint for the wounded. We shall set up a hospital in the shop."

"Stop thief! Stop thief!"

"Did this fellow rob you, my good woman?" asked the ragpicker.

"Yes, my good man," she answered. "I was standing at my door. This man ran up and said to me: 'The people are rising; we must have arms.' 'Monsieur, I haven't any,' I answered him. Thereupon he pushed me aside and went into my shop, despite all I could do, saying: 'Well, if you have no arms, I shall take money to buy some.' So saying, he opened my till, took out of it thirty-two francs that I had there, and a gold watch. I tried to hold him, but he drew a knife upon me—fortunately I parried the blow with my hand—here, see the cut I got. I cried for help, and he fled!"

The culprit was a good sized, robust, and well clad man, but of ignoble countenance. Hardened vice had left its indelible impress upon his wasted features.

"It is not true! I stole nothing!" he cried in a husky voice, struggling to avoid being searched. "Let me go! What does it concern you, anyhow?"

"Here is the watch, for one thing," said a workingman after searching the thief.

"Can you identify it, madam?"

"I should think so, monsieur! It is old and heavy."

"Correct!" replied the workingman. "Here it is, madam."

"And in his vest," said another workingman after searching another of the thief's pockets, "six hundred-sou pieces and one forty-sou piece."

"My thirty-two francs!" cried the tradeswoman. "Thank you, my dear men, thank you!"

"That part being settled, my young fellow, you must now settle scores with us," proceeded the ragpicker. "You stole and meant to commit murder in the name of the people, did you not? Answer!"

"What is all this pother about, my friends, are we engaged in a revolution, or are we not?" answered the thief in a hoarse voice and affecting a cynical laugh. "Well, then, let us break into the money boxes!"

"Is that what you understand by a revolution?" asked the ragpicker. "To break into the money boxes?"

"Well?"

"Accordingly, you believe the people rise in revolt for the purpose of stealing—brigand that you are?"

"What other purpose have you, then, in insurrecting, you pack of hypocrites? Is it, perhaps, for honor's sake?" replied the thief brazenly.

"I think we would better tell Monsieur Lebrenn of this affair, and ask his opinion."

Still a fourth whispered a few words in the ear of the ragpicker, who answered:

"I think so, too. It would be no more than he deserves. It may be a wholesome example. But while we wait, send me Flameche to help me mount guard over this bad Parisian."

"Halloa, Flameche!" called a voice. "Come and help father Bribri hold a thief."

Flameche ran to the ragpicker. He was a true Parisian gamin. Wan, frail, wasted away by want, the lad, who was gifted with an intelligent and bold face, was sixteen years of age, but looked only twelve. He wore a dilapidated pair of trousers, and old shoes to match, and a blue sack coat that hung in shreds from his shoulders; for weapon he carried a saddle-pistol. Flameche arrived jumping and leaping.

"Flameche," said the ragpicker, "is your pistol loaded?"

"Yes, father Bribri. It is loaded with two marbles, three nails and a knuckle-bone—I rammed all my toggery into it."

"That will do to settle the gentleman if he but budges. Listen, my friend Flameche—finger on trigger, and barrel in vest."

With these words Flameche neatly inserted the muzzle of his pistol between the shirt and the skin of the thief. Seeing that the latter tried to resist, Flameche added:

"Don't fidget; don't fidget; if you do you may cause Azor to go off."

"Flameche means his dog of a pistol," added father Bribri by way of translation.

"Frauds that you are!" cried the thief, carefully abstaining from moving, but beginning to tremble, although he made an effort to smile. "What do you propose to do? Come, now, be done with your fooling! I have had enough of it."

"You need not fear, father Bribri," put in Flameche; "you need not fear—I shall never need to steal. I help you and other traders in old duds to pack your sacks and dispose of your pickings. I treat myself to the best that the dogs have left over. I make my burrow in your bundle of old clothes, and sleep there like a dormouse. No fear, I tell you, father Bribri, I need not steal. As to me, when I insurrect, by the honor of my name! it is because it finally rasps upon me not to be allowed to angle for red fish in the large pond of the Tuileries—and I have made up my mind, in case we come out victors, to fish myself to death. Each one after his own fancy. Long live the Reform! Down with Louis Philippe!"