om, scantily furnished, with the same marks of neglect
and decay which met us at every turn. The walls were hung with
discoloured tapestry, which had come loose at one corner, so as to
expose the rough stonework behind. A second door, hung with a curtain,
faced us upon the other side. Between lay a square table, strewn with
dirty dishes and the sordid remains of a meal. Several bottles were
scattered over it. At the head of it, and facing us, there sat a huge
man with a lion-like head and a great shock of orange-coloured hair. His
beard was of the same glaring hue; matted and tangled and coarse as a
horse's mane. I have seen some strange faces in my time, but never one
more brutal than that, with its small, vicious, blue eyes, its white,
crumpled cheeks, and the thick, hanging lip which protruded over his
monstrous beard. His head swayed about on his shoulders, and he looked
at us with the vague, dim gaze of a drunken man. Yet he was not so drunk
but that our uniforms carried their message to him.

'Well, my brave boys,' he hiccoughed. 'What is the latest news from
Paris, eh? You're going to free Poland, I hear, and have meantime all
become slaves yourselves--slaves to a little aristocrat with his grey
coat and his three-cornered hat. No more citizens either, I am told, and
nothing but monsieur and madame. My faith, some more heads will have to
roll into the sawdust basket some of these mornings.'

Duroc advanced in silence, and stood by the ruffian's side.

'Jean Carabin,' said he.

The Baron started, and the film of drunkenness seemed to be clearing
from his eyes.

'Jean Carabin,' said Duroc, once more.

He sat up and grasped the arms of his chair.

'What do you mean by repeating that name, young man?' he asked.

'Jean Carabin, you are a man whom I have long wished to meet.'

'Supposing that I once had such a name, how can it concern you, since
you must have been a child when I bore it?'

'My name is Duroc.'

'Not the son of----?'

'The son of the man you murdered.'

The Baron tried to laugh, but there was terror in his eyes.

'We must let bygones be bygones, young man,' he cried. 'It was our life
or theirs in those days: the aristocrats or the people. Your father was
of the Gironde. He fell. I was of the mountain. Most of my comrades
fell. It was all the fortune of war. We must forget all this and learn
to know each other better, you and I.' He held out a red, twitching hand
as he spoke.

'Enough,'