"Yet it is not for that I love him, but because he told me I had heart and honour. Yes, and that at a time when I was as fierce as a brute beast. And he made me understand what was good in me, and that I had repented, and, after suffering great misery, had worked hard for an honest livelihood, although all the world considered me as a thorough ruffian,--and so, when M. Rodolph said these words to me, my heart beat high and proudly, and from this time I would go through fire and water to serve him." "Why, it is because you are better than you were that you ought not to have any of those forebodings. Your dream is nothing." "We shall see. I shall not try and get into any mischief, for I cannot have any worse misfortune than not to see again M. Rodolph, whom I hoped never again to leave. I should have been in my way, you see, always with him, body and soul,--always ready. Never mind, perhaps he was wrong,--I am only a worm at his feet; but sometimes, Martial, the smallest may be useful to the greatest." "One day, perhaps, you may see him." "Oh, no; he said to me, 'My good fellow, you must promise never to seek nor see me,--that will be doing me a service.' So, of course, Martial, I promised; and I'll keep my word, though it is very hard." "Once at Algeria, you will forget all your vexations." "Yes, yes; I'm an old trooper, Martial, and will face the Bedouins." "Come, come, you'll soon recover your spirits. We'll farm and hunt together, and live together, or separate, just as you like. We'll bring up the children like honest people, and you shall be their uncle,--for we are brothers, and my wife is good at heart; and so we'll be happy, eh?" And Martial extended his hand to the Chourineur. "So we will, Martial," was the reply; "and my sorrow will kill me, or I shall kill my sorrow." "It will not kill you. We shall pass our days together; and every evening we will say, 'brother, thanks to M. Rodolph,'--that shall be our prayer to, him." "Martial, you comfort me." "Well, then, that is all right; and as to that stupid-dream, you will think no more of it, I hope?" "I'll try." "Well, then, you'll come to us at four o'clock; the diligence goes at five." "Agreed. But I will get out here and walk to the barrier at Charenton, where I will await M. Rodolph, that I may see him pass." The coach stopped, and the Chourineur alighted. CHAPTER XI. THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE. The Chourineur had forgotten that it was the day after mid-Lent, and was consequently greatly surprised at the sight, at once hideous and singular, which presented itself to his view when he arrived at the exterior boulevard, which he was traversing to reach the barrier of Charenton. He found himself suddenly in the thickest of a dense throng of people, who were coming out of the cabarets of the Faubourg de la Glaciere, in order to reach the Boulevard St. Jacques, where the execution was to take place.