lden to him.

"The first two battalions are going away," he replied. He was very
pale.

"They are sent to stop him," said Mr. Goulden.

"Yes," said Zebede, winking, "they are going to stop him."

The drums still rolled. He went downstairs, four at a time. I
followed him. At the foot of the stairs, and while he was on the first
step, he seized me by the arm, and raising his shako, whispered in my
ear:

"Look, Joseph, do you recognize that?"

I saw the old tri-colored cockade in the lining.

"That is ours," he said, "all the soldiers have it."

I hardly had time to glance at it when he shook my hand and, turning
away, hurried to Fouquet's corner. I went upstairs, saying to myself,
"Now for another breaking up, in which Europe will be involved; now for
the conscription, Joseph, the abolition of all permits and all the
other things that we read of in the gazettes. In the place of quiet,
we must be plunged in confusion; instead of listening to the ticking of
clocks, we must hear the thunder of cannon; instead of talking of
convents, we must talk of arsenals; instead of smelling flowers and
incense, we must smell powder. Great God! will this never come to an
end? Everything would go prosperously without missionaries and
emigres. What a calamity! What a calamity! We who work and ask for
nothing are always the ones who have to pay. All these crimes are
committed for our happiness, while they mock us and treat us like
brutes." A great many other ideas passed through my head, but what
good did they do me? I was not the Comte d'Artois, nor was I the Duke
de Berry; and one must be a prince in order that his ideas may be of
consequence, and that every word he speaks may pass for a miracle.

Father Goulden could not keep still a moment that afternoon. He was
just as impatient as I was when I was expecting my permit to marry. He
would look out of the window every moment and say, "There will be great
news to-day; the orders have been given, and there is no need of hiding
anything from us any longer." And from time to time he would exclaim,
"Hush! here is the mail coach!" We would listen, but it was Lanche's
cart with his old horses, or Baptiste's boat at the bridge. It was
quite dark and Catherine had laid the cloth, when for the twentieth
time Mr. Goulden exclaimed, "Listen!"

This time we heard a distant rumbling, which came nearer every moment.
Without waiting an instant, he ran to the alcove and slipp