“Oh, where was I? (_Pardieu!_ Colonel, I wish you would cover that up; I shall dream of that terrible thumb all night.) Here we are: 'Though nothing could be learned from Picot, it was ascertained that the brigand--'” “Ha, ha!” said a fat little fellow in a blouse, “they call them all brigands: Moreau is a brigand; Pichegru is a brigand too.” “'That the brigand had passed Monday night near Chaillot, and on Tuesday, towards evening, was seen at Sainte-Genevieve, where it was suspected he slept on the mountain; on Wednesday the police traced him to the cabriolet stand at the end of the Rue de Condé, where he took a carriage and drove towards the Odéon.'” “Probably he was going to the spectacle. What did they play that night?” said the fat man; “'La Mort de Barberousse,' perhaps.” The other read on: “'The officer cried out, as he seized the bridle, “Je vous arrète!” when George levelled a pistol and shot him through the forehead, and then springing over the dead body dashed down the street. The butchers of the neighborhood, who knew the reward offered for his apprehension, pursued and fell upon him with their hatchets; a hand-to-hand encounter followed, in which the brigand's wrist was nearly severed from his arm; and thus disabled and overpowered, he was secured and conveyed to the Temple.'” “And who is this man?” said I in a whisper to the tall person near me.” “The General George Cadoudal,--a brave Breton, and a faithful follower of his King,” replied he; “and may Heaven have pity on him now!” He crossed himself piously as he spoke, and moved slowly away. “General Cadoudal!” repeated I to myself; “the same whose description figured on every wall of the capital, and for whose apprehension immense rewards were offered.” And with an inward shudder I thought of my chance intercourse with the man to harbor whom was death,--the dreaded chief of the Chouans, the daring Breton of whom Paris rung with stories. And this was the companion of Henri de Beauvais. Revolving such thoughts, I strolled along unconsciously, until I reached the place where some days before I had seen the Vendeans engaged in prayer. The loud tone of a deep voice arrested my steps. I stopped and listened. It was George himself who spoke; he stood, drawn up to his full height, in the midst of a large circle who sat around on the grass. Though his language was a _patois_ of which I was ignorant, I could catch here and there some indication of his meaning, as much perhaps from his gesture and the look of those he addressed, as from the words themselves.