“The barrier is closed, madame,” she was curtly informed. “Closed!” she echoed. The thing was incredible. “But... but do you mean that we cannot pass?” “Not unless you have a permit, madame.” The sergeant leaned nonchalantly on his pike. “The orders are that no one is to leave or enter without proper papers.” “Whose orders?” “Orders of the Commune of Paris.” “But I must go into the country this evening.” Madame’s voice was almost petulant. “I am expected.” “In that case let madame procure a permit.” “Where is it to be procured?” “At the Hotel de Ville or at the headquarters of madame’s section.” She considered a moment. “To the section, then. Be so good as to tell my coachman to drive to the Bondy Section.” He saluted her and stepped back. “Section Bondy, Rue des Morts,” he bade the driver. Madame sank into her seat again, in a state of agitation fully shared by mademoiselle. Rougane set himself to pacify and reassure them. The section would put the matter in order. They would most certainly be accorded a permit. What possible reason could there be for refusing them? A mere formality, after all! His assurance uplifted them merely to prepare them for a still more profound dejection when presently they met with a flat refusal from the president of the section who received the Countess. “Your name, madame?” he had asked brusquely. A rude fellow of the most advanced republican type, he had not even risen out of deference to the ladies when they entered. He was there, he would have told you, to perform the duties of his office, not to give dancing-lessons. “Plougastel,” he repeated after her, without title, as if it had been the name of a butcher or baker. He took down a heavy volume from a shelf on his right, opened it and turned the pages. It was a sort of directory of his section. Presently he found what he sought. “Comte de Plougastel, Hotel Plougastel, Rue du Paradis. Is that it?” “That is correct, monsieur,” she answered, with what civility she could muster before the fellow’s affronting rudeness. There was a long moment of silence, during which he studied certain pencilled entries against the name. The sections had been working in the last few weeks much more systematically than was generally suspected. “Your husband is with you, madame?” he asked curtly, his eyes still conning that page. “M. le Comte is not with me,” she answered, stressing the title. “Not with you?” He looked up suddenly, and directed upon her a glance in which suspicion seemed to blend with derision. “Where is he?” “He is not in Paris, monsieur. “Ah! Is he at Coblenz, do you think?” Madame felt herself turning cold. There was something ominous in all this. To what end had the sections informed themselves so thoroughly of the comings and goings of their inhabitants? What was preparing? She had a sense of being trapped, of being taken in a net that had been cast unseen. “I do not know, monsieur,” she said, her voice unsteady.