Deulin, however, was suddenly made aware of his own ignorance of affairs that were progressing in his immediate vicinity, and which were affecting the lives of those around him. More than any other do Frenchmen herd together in exile, and Deulin knew all his fellow-countrymen and women in Warsaw, in whatsoever station of life they happened to move. He had a friend behind the counter of the small feather-cleaning shop in the Jerozolimska. This lady was a French Jewess, who had by some undercurrent of Judaism drifted from Paris to Warsaw again and found herself once more among her own people. The western world is ignorant of the strength of Jewry in Poland. Deulin made a transparent excuse for his visit to the cleaner's shop. He took with him two or three pairs of those lavender gloves which Englishmen have happily ceased to wear by day. “One likes,” he said to the stout Jewess, “to talk one's own tongue in a foreign land.” And he sat down quite affably on the hither side of the counter. Conversation ran smoothly enough between these two, and an hour slipped past before Deulin quitted the little shop. It was still early in the day, and he hurried to Cartoner's rooms in the Jasna. He bought a flower at the corner of the Jerozolimska as he went along, and placed it in his buttonhole. He wore his soft felt hat at a gay angle, and walked the pavement at a pace and with an air belonging to a younger generation. “Ah!” he cried, at the sight of Cartoner, pipe in mouth, at his writing-table. “Ah! if you were only idle, as I am”--he paused, with a sharp, little sigh--“if you only could be idle, how much happier you would be!” “A Frenchman,” replied Cartoner, without looking up, “thinks that noise means happiness.” “Then you are happy--you pretend to happiness?” inquired Deulin, sitting down without being invited to do so, and drawing towards him a cigarette-case that lay upon the table. “Yes, thank you,” replied Cartoner, lightly. He seemed, too, to be gay this morning. “Don't thank me--thank the gods,” replied Deulin, with a sudden gravity. “Well,” said Cartoner presently, without ceasing to write, “what do you want?” Deulin glanced at his friend with a gleam of suspicion. “What do I want?” he inquired, innocently. “Yes. You want something. I always know when you want something. When you are most idle you are most occupied.” “Ah!” Cartoner wrote on while Deulin lighted a cigarette and smoked half of it with a leisurely enjoyment of its bouquet. “There is a certain smell in the Rue Royale, left-hand side looking towards the Column--the shady side, after the street has been watered--that my soul desires,” said the Frenchman, at length. “When are you going?” asked Cartoner, softly. “I am not going; I wish I were. I thought I was last night. I thought I had done my work here, and that it would be unnecessary to wait on indefinitely for----” “For what?” “For the upheaval,” explained Deulin, with an airy wave of his cigarette.