He took a shabby cap from his head and turned his face: a chill ran through me when in the dim street-light I recognized my portrait, moving, speaking, living. A black patch above the brow made me wonder if the wound it concealed passed through the head, as did that in the picture, and his eyes were more brilliant and eager than the painted ones, with their pathetic look changed to one of defiance, as if a devil had taken possession of those beautiful features. For a moment superstition kept me silent, then I said briefly, "I don't know you." "Allow me to introduce myself--Favart the International. You are delighted to make my acquaintance, no doubt. Calm your transports: time does not admit of them. We start for Belgium to-night." "Who start?" I asked, now thinking the man a maniac. "I, you, all of us." "I am none of you." "But you are suspected of being, which is worse, much worse. Hold! I will sketch your position accurately. Let us enter this cabaret: it is kept by one of us." I followed him mechanically, and when we were seated in a dark corner, with some wine he called for before us, he continued: "I divide the sketch into three heads, historical, personal and political. There is a theory called Socialism--a people called Socialists, or Chartists, or Communists: they have different names in different countries. You may have heard of them in the past: you shall hear more of them in the future. They have a good organization and magnificent sympathies." "But you called yourself an International."