The concierge, said he, is the government. The President of the Republic is but her servant. Her newspaper has the greatest circulation in the world--is the furthest reaching--_Le Petit Journal_. She stands between the landlord and the tenant--that is her sole duty--and she stands on her duty. She has usurped power as the Carlovingian mayors of the palace plucked the sceptre from their Merovingian kings, the Rois Fainéants of France. She is dragon over all the moralities--you may commit any sin in France, if you do it gracefully, except shocking the concierge. At eleven o’ the night she shuts the gates, and gets to bed--and when you ring the bell for admittance, she pulls the bolts by magic from that bed, scarce turning to break her snore, and you as you pass must call your name--or you are lost. In her smile or in her frown lies your honour, your repute, your good name.... France one fine morning awoke, and her sunny smile died out, scared by the threat of Revolution. Paris talked in anxious whispers. Paris frowned. For on the walls of the Rue de Rivoli was writ _Long Live the King!_ At mid-day Paris was laughing--the concealed troops marched out of the courtyards and went home; the revolution was over: beneath _Long Live the King_, a workman, mounting the shoulders of another, had writ: “_Which?_” killing the danger with a jest.... At midnight Paris was a riot of dancing--a third wag had written full answer to the sphinx: _Le concierge_. Arrived at the heights, Horace bade the lights to be lit, and when their home was all ablaze with welcome, he handed Betty the key, wished them happiness, and took his leave until the morning. CHAPTER XLVIII _Which has to do with the Motherhood of the World_ A clock struck five. The sun rose out of the grey mists of the east and flecked with golden light the upper stories of the white-faced city. Betty roused at the noises of the awakening street below--footsteps--the clink of bottles in which young women bore the morning’s milk to the court--then low voices that gossiped drowsily. The disturbing sense of being in a strange bed. The distant rumble of a cart--and more footsteps and again voices, of a pitch and accent that struck strangely upon her ear. And she knew she was awaking in a strange land. It came to her that she was in Paris. Paris! She sat up in bed. There was a dear fellow’s head on the pillow beside her--he slept soundly. And she laughed low. She put her dainty feet out of her marriage bed, slipped their whiteness into his slippers, wrapped his warm dressing-gown about her, and went to the window.