“Mamma, will you take some more hare? Mademoiselle, you are not eating,” said the sailor to Francine, seeming busy with the guests. But Hulot’s astonishment and Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s close observation had something too dangerously serious about them to be ignored. “What is it, citizen?” said the young man, abruptly; “do you know me?” “Perhaps I do,” replied the Republican. “You are right; I remember you at the School.” “I never went to any school,” said the soldier, roughly. “What school do you mean?” “The Polytechnique.” “Ha, ha, those barracks where they expect to make soldiers in dormitories,” said the veteran, whose aversion for officers trained in that nursery was insurmountable. “To what arm do you belong?” “I am in the navy.” “Ha!” cried Hulot, smiling vindictively, “how many of your fellow-students are in the navy? Don’t you know,” he added in a serious tone, “that none but the artillery and the engineers graduate from there?” The young man was not disconcerted. “An exception was made in my favor, on account of the name I bear,” he answered. “We are all naval men in our family.” “What is the name of your family, citizen?” asked Hulot. “Du Gua Saint-Cyr.” “Then you were not killed at Mortagne?” “He came very near being killed,” said Madame du Gua, quickly; “my son received two balls in--” “Where are your papers?” asked Hulot, not listening to the mother. “Do you propose to read them?” said the young man, cavalierly; his blue eye, keen with suspicion, studied alternately the gloomy face of the commandant and that of Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “A stripling like you to pretend to fool me! Come, produce your papers, or--” “La! la! citizen, I’m not such a babe as I look to be. Why should I answer you? Who are you?” “The commander of this department,” answered Hulot. “Oh, then, of course, the matter is serious; I am taken with arms in my hand,” and he held a glass full of Bordeaux to the soldier. “I am not thirsty,” said Hulot. “Come, your papers.” At that instant the rattle of arms and the tread of men was heard in the street. Hulot walked to the window and gave a satisfied look which made Mademoiselle de Verneuil tremble. That sign of interest on her part seemed to fire the young man, whose face had grown cold and haughty. After feeling in the pockets of his coat he drew forth an elegant portfolio and presented certain papers to the commandant, which the latter read slowly, comparing the description given in the passport with the face and figure of the young man before him. During this prolonged examination the owl’s cry rose again; but this time there was no difficulty whatever in recognizing a human voice. The commandant at once returned the papers to the young man, with a scoffing look. “That’s all very fine,” he said; “but I don’t like the music. You will come with me to headquarters.” “Why do you take him there?” asked Mademoiselle de Verneuil, in a tone of some excitement.