The hearse had just received its light burden, and the coffin was being covered—thrice covered—with flowers: mere nosegays, bouquets, wreath after wreath. By the doorstep, stood Marcelle’s concierge—a stout woman—crying. Farther away, three policemen—erect and motionless. Few students to be seen. But they had sent their tributes of affection, for the flowers continued to come—came and came—accompanied by cards and ribbons: one card bearing the inscription: “To Our Blonde Marcelle.” Then, after the last flower had been laid, Mürger’s young and charming daughters, Mürger’s elderly and tragical daughters, gathered behind the hearse. Slowly it advanced, slowly it disappeared—the policemen saluting, the concierge weeping, the spectators removing their hats, the bourgeoise householder crossing herself, the Daughters of Mürger following immediately behind the hearse; the woman in red, still the most noticeable. The most noticeable, perhaps, because her arm was drawn through the arm of a young man: bareheaded, dressed in a coarse black suit: red-eyed, red-eared, ungainly, uncouth: of the fields, of the earth, unmistakably, a peasant. With stooping shoulders and bowed head; stupefied, wrecked; Marcelle’s peasant brother followed his “petite sœur bien aimée” to her grave—in the compassionate charge of the shabby, husky-voiced woman in red. Across the bridge, past Notre-Dame: past theatres, banks, cafés and fine shops: past hospitals, past hovels, past drinking dens. On and on, on and on—the mourners silently and sorrowfully following Marcelle. Still on: the mourners accompanying Marcelle, once most blithe of Mürger’s daughters, farther and farther from Mürger’s land. Onward always, through the gloom, through the mist, to Marcelle’s last destination. Then back again, through the mist, through the gloom, without Marcelle: and Marcelle the Blonde, Marcelle the _Vraie Gamine_, only a memory, only a name. 3. THE DAUGHTER OF THE STUDENTS The month of July—eleven years ago. The year was one of those dear, amazing years when, in Paris, everybody has a foe, a feud and a fear; everybody a flush on his face and a gleam in his eye; everybody a little adventure with the plain police, the mounted police or the Garde Républicaine. We are on the march, on the run. The Ministry of the moment is—well, who _is_ Prime Minister this morning? Never mind his name; he is sure to be a swindler, a “bandit.” Nothing but “bandits” among the public men. No purity among the public men; they have all, all “touched” money in the Panama affair. No; M. Duval is _not_ an exception. He is as villainous as the rest. If you persist in your declaration that he is an exception, you must have some sinister, interested reason. _You_, Monsieur, are no better than M. Duval. You, too, are a bandit. I say it again, bandit, bandit, bandit. Come out and fight. Come out and——