Nicole leading the way, they hurried through the thronged streets, scenting at every step the inviting odor of soups and stews, until they arrived at a large tavern, or brasserie, around which was a thick crowd struggling for admission. "Have you heard of Santerre?" Nicole said. "A very wise man who has discovered that the seat of popularity lies in the stomach." "The Romans placed all the affections there." "Ah, you've had an education," Nicole said, with a new respect. "There's Santerre." Before the entrance a huge mass of a man, boisterous in his hospitality and his laughter, was distributing enormous hand-shakes. Nicole saluted him with evident familiarity. "I have brought you a patriot to dinner, citoyen!" Santerre winced a bit and grumbled: "Eh, Nicole, and you have brought yourself along." "Vive Santerre!" the girl cried, with a laugh. "Citoyen Barabant has just arrived, and the first thing he asked was to see the famous leader of the Faubourg St. Antoine." "At lunch-time, of course," said Santerre, with a shrug. "Pass in and eat." Nicole seized Barabant by the hand and entered the restaurant, already crowded with the self-invited guests of the leader's ready hospitality. They found a corner table and settled down to a quiet inspection of the noisy room. Masons, carters, and laborers preponderated, while a smattering of young lawyers and journalists circulated from table to table, with ready hand-shakes, to take up the conversation or clink a glass in toasts to the dozen subjects most in favor. Above the din of plates and cutlery, cutting the hum of voices, the toasts emerged sharply. "To the Bonnets Rouges!" "To the good Sans-Culottes!" "À bas les Tyrans!" "Vive la Constitution!" "Vive Santerre!" "Long life to our host!" At times the Carmagnole, at times some popular ballad of the day, would start from a corner, and gathering headway, would gradually run through the noise of the room until, absorbing all other sounds, it ended in a gale. Whereupon there would be a clatter of knives and glass, shouts of "Bravo!" laughter, and more drinking. Barabant was too susceptible a nature not to respond to the magnetism of such surroundings. His look regained all its ardor of the morning, until Nicole regarded him with a new interest. He had the long, narrow forehead of the period, marked with thoughtfulness and curiosity. The nose was high-bridged, the nostrils were sensitive and dilating with emotion. The gray eyes were shrewd, kind, gay, and noting, with the mobility and charm of the enthusiast, but, in their repose, without that impress of authority and earnestness of purpose which give to the man of imagination the genius of leadership. "Come, citoyen," Nicole said, at the end of her inspection, "tell me something about yourself. I am filled with curiosity."