It was very dark, but the old man was familiar with his menagerie out there on the parapet; he loved his stone monsters--the owl, the griffin, the gorgon, and stroked them every time that he passed them. But the creature with a man’s body, goat’s feet and horns, inspired him with a certain awe, as it stood there leaning on its hands like a priest, and bending forward as if to preach to the godless city or to hurl anathemas at it. He took his stand near it, and began to signal with the lantern. But the wind was so violent that the old man swayed, and had to put his arm round the creature’s body, in order to support himself. After he had stood for a time signalling with the lantern, and gazing out into the darkness, he suddenly raised himself upright, put down the lantern, and raised the speaking-trumpet to his mouth. Holding on to the stone balustrade, he turned to the southern tower, and cried “Hullo! Francis! Hallo!” After a while a reply came through the darkness. “Qui vive?” “Mont-joie--Saint-Denis.” “Sacre!” answered the other. “Ring the great bell! Ring, for heaven’s sake!” The watchman remained standing for a while looking at the coloured lights on the church tower of St. Cloud. In order to be quite certain, he repeated his signal, and received for answer: “Right understood.” The old man sighed “Thy will be done, O Lord!” He was on the point of returning to the turret-chamber, when the wind blew so violently, that he had to seize the arm of the horned monster in order to stand fast. But the figure had got loose; it yielded, and moved a little. “He too!” muttered the old man to himself. “Nothing stands fast, everything slips; nothing remains on which to support oneself.” He crouched down in order not to be blown away, and so stooping, as he walked, reached the door of the turret-chamber, which he flung open. “The Revolution is over,” he called out to the bookcase. “What do you say?” “The Revolution is over! Come out, sire.” He laid hold of the bookcase, and opened it like a door on its hinges. It concealed a neat little room furnished in the style of Louis XV. Out of it stepped a man of about thirty, with pale delicate features and a melancholy aspect. “Sire,” said the bookbinder in a humble voice, “now your time is come, and mine runs out. I do not exactly know what has happened on this eighteenth of Brumaire in Saint Cloud, but one thing I know: Buonaparte has taken the helm.” “Jaques,” answered the nobleman, “I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but I cannot conceal my joy.” “Don’t conceal it, sire! You have saved me from the scaffold, and I have saved you; let us thank each other, and be quits.” “To think that this bloody drama is ended--that this madness....” “Sire, don’t speak so.”