Father Bribri, who was a great lover of tobacco, foreseeing that he might soon not have leisure to take his pinch of snuff, inhaled a last load out of his pouch, seized his musket and knelt down in front of a species of loophole that was contrived between several cobblestones, while Flameche, pistol in hand, climbed up the ledges like a cat, in order to reach the summit of the barricade. "Will you come down, you imp, and not make a target of your nose!" cried out the ragpicker, pulling Flameche by the leg. "You will be shot to dust." "No fear, father Bribri!" replied Flameche, tugging away, and finally succeeding in slipping from the old man's grip. "This is gratis--I wish to treat myself to a first salvo, face to face--and have a good look at things." And raising half his body above the barricade, Flameche stuck out his tongue to the Municipal Guard, which was approaching at the double quick. Addressing the combatants who surrounded him, Monsieur Lebrenn said: "Those soldiers are, after all, our brothers. Let us make one last attempt to avoid the effusion of blood." "You are right--try again, Monsieur Lebrenn," came from the bare-armed blacksmith as he flipped the stock of his gun with his nail; "but it will be love's labor lost--as you will see." The merchant climbed to the top of the heap of cobblestones. Standing there, with one hand resting upon his gun, and waving a handkerchief with the other, he signalled to the approaching soldiers that he wished to speak to them. The drums of the detachment ceased beating, rolled the order for silence, and all listened. At one of the windows on the first floor of the merchant's house his wife and daughter stood partly concealed behind the blinds, which they had slightly opened. They stood side by side, holding their breath, pale, but calm and resolute. They did not remove their eyes from Lebrenn as he was addressing the soldiers with his son--who had closely followed his father up the barricade in order, if necessary, to cover him with his own body--standing beside him, gun in hand. George Duchene was about to join the two when he suddenly felt himself violently plucked back by his blouse. He turned and saw Pradeline. She had been running fast, as the redness of her cheeks and short breath denoted. The defenders of the barricade had seen the young girl approach; they were surprised to see her among them. As she sought to push her way through the crowd in order to reach George, they said to her: "Don't stay here, young woman; it is too dangerous a place." "You here!" cried George stupefied at the sight of Pradeline. "George, listen to me!" the girl said to him imploringly. "I went twice to your house yesterday, and failed to find you at home. I wrote to you that I would call again this morning. To keep my appointment I had to cross several barricades, and--" "Stand back!" cried George, alarmed for her safety. "You will be shot--this is no place for you."