The curtain of the Bastille had not risen; but it had been pulled aside a little, as it were, to make passage to the forestage of the Revolution for certain supers who were to represent the opening chorus. These came swarming through in extraordinary numbers, an earnest of what should be revealed in the complete withdrawal of the screen. They seemed violently inspired, but most imperfectly drilled; and the weapons they handled were not stage properties by any means. And their object was just this--to pull about his ears the factory of a certain M. Reveillon, who had been heard to say that a journeyman could live very comfortably on fifteen sous a-day. The execrated building was not so far from the Rue Beautreillis but that the hubbub in the air shook the very glass of Ned’s windows. He dressed hastily and ran out into the street. Turning into the Rue St Antoine, that was half choked with a chattering, hooting mob hurrying westwards, he stumbled over the heels of a man who immediately preceded him. With an apology on his lips, he hesitated and cried aloud, “St Denys!” Even when the stranger disclaimed the title, with a wonder in his eyes unmistakably genuine, Ned could hardly bring himself to realisation of his mistake. True, his acquaintance with the Belgian had been brief enough to admit of subsequent events clouding its details in his memory; yet that, he could have thought, was vivid to recall characteristics of feature and complexion quite impressive in their way. Here were the bright, bold colouring, the girlish contour of face, the brown eyes, and the rough crisp gold of unpowdered hair. Here were the shapely stature, the little fopperies of dress even, the actual confidence of expression. Only, as to the latter, perhaps, a certain soul of sobriety, an earnestness of purpose, revealed themselves in the present instance--a distinction to justify a world of difference. “A thousand apologies!” said Ned. “I can hardly convince myself even now.” “I will presume you flatter me, monsieur,” said the other, with a blithe smile. “My name is Suleau, at your service. Pardon me, I must hurry on.” Ned detained him a moment. “Let me entreat you, monsieur--this heat, this uproar: what is it all about?” “What, indeed, monsieur? France, I think, rolls on its back with its feet in the air. A manufacturer of paper says that his hands can live very well, if they choose, on fifteen sous a-day. _Hé_--he ought to know. But they wish to gut his premises, nevertheless, these new, evil-smelling apostles of liberty. _Pardon_! will you come with me? I cannot wait. I am a reporter, a journalist, a scribbler against time and my own interests!” “You are not of the popular party?” “_Ah_, monsieur, _mon Dieu_, monsieur! but I have a sense of humour remaining to me. For all that is serious I am a Feuillant.” He spoke the last to deaf ears. Ned had fallen behind, blackly pondering.