The opposition to our progress came to an end. Mrs. Leare and old Mammy
were helped back into the cart, and a man offered them some wine. They
brought some also to Hermione. I pressed her to drink it, which she did
to their good health, and giving back the glass placed in it a napoleon.
"Do me the favor, messieurs," she said, "to drink your next toast to our
American republic."

Cheers rose for her. There was no longer any talk of detaining us: the
old horse was urged forward. Hermione took my arm. We marched on,
escorted by the rabble. At the end of the village-street they all gave
us an unsteady cheer and turned back to their wine-tables. Hermione
proceeded in silence a little farther. Then I felt her slipping from my
arm, and was just in time to catch her.

Without compunction I requested Mammy Chris to get out of the cart and
put her young lady in her place, pillowing her head as carefully as I
could on my own coat, and proceeding in my shirtsleeves.

We were then not half a mile from the Banlieu, which we passed without
adventure, much to my surprise, its inhabitants having taken advantage
of the confusion to pour into Paris and infest its richer quarters.

The ladies were obliged to get out at the barrier and to send back the
cart to its proprietor. Again I had the happiness of supporting Hermione
while I carried little Claribel, and Mrs. Leare and Mammy walked on
ahead.

"I feel humiliated," I said, "that the whole burden of those dreadful
moments should have fallen upon you."

"And to avoid that feeling you were ready to knock down a drunken blouse
in English style?" she said, smiling. "No, Mr. Farquhar, nothing but the
power that a woman finds in her own womanhood could have brought us
through safely. Those men had all had mothers, and each man had some
sort of womanly ideal. I could not have managed a crowd of _poissardes_,
but, thank Heaven, there is yet a chord that a woman may strike in the
hearts of men."

The dawn of Thursday, February 24, 1848, was breaking at the eastward
when I arrived with Mrs. Leare, Hermione, the nurse and child at their
own apartment. I went up stairs with them. All was cold and cheerless in
the rooms. There were no servants. Mrs. Leare sat down; the old nurse
bemoaned her rheumatism and her aching bones; Hermione, with the
assistance of the concierge's wife, lighted a fire, made some tea and
waited on her mother.

For several days afterward she was very ill. She knew no