"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.