me."

The two accomplices stood talking in the large room which the men of the
company shared.

"Who the devil could have supposed," the one said to the other, "that
Fanfar would have been able to save Gudel. Such a tremendous weight!"

While they were talking, Robeccal and La Roulante heard heavy steps on
the stairs, and then a knock at Gudel's door.

Robeccal started. He suddenly remembered the brief colloquy which he had
had with the unknown--who was in fact, Cyprien. Might it not be if he
did what this man desired that in it he would also find his revenge?

"If you hate Gudel," this man had said, "I will give you an opportunity
of paying off old scores."

Robeccal opened the door and looked out.

Yes, these were the men. Turning to the giantess,

"Listen!" he said, "it is by no means certain that all is lost."

"I don't understand."

"No, but tell me quick. Does he seem to have any secrets?"

"He is always reading the newspapers. He goes himself for his letters
always, and brings back a quantity."

"Have you never read any of them?"

"I can't read."

"Wait a little. I think we have him now."

The two persons whom we saw in the dining-room now stood at the foot of
Gudel's bed.

"You have had a narrow escape," said one.

"Yes, thanks to Fanfar. His brains, his arms and his muscles saved me."

"It was of him that we came to speak," replied the man who was dressed
like a horse jockey.

"If it is time to act," said Gudel, "you may rely on him."

"Are you sure? We do not doubt you nor him, but for such work as
ours--of which the aim is to return to France that liberty which has
been stifled by the iron hand of Bonaparte and by the Bourbons--we need
men who are ready to sacrifice their lives--to walk straight on, even if
the scaffold stands at the termination of their road. Is Fanfar such a
man?"

"I am not much of a speaker," answered Gudel. "My father was a soldier
of the Republic. I myself was condemned to death in 1815. My father gave
his life for France, and I lived through accident. It was about that
time that little Fanfar fell into my hands, and I have always taught him
to feel the greatest respect for the Revolution. You know, too, that his
father was murdered by the allies, his mother was burned by the
Cossacks, and his sister, poor little soul, died of starvation. Do you
wonder that Fanfar hates the Bourbons? And you ask if you may trust
him!"

There was a brief silence, and then the