the brain so soon to be shrouded in eternal darkness.
Hereafter the invasion seemed arrested; the Generals were terrorized and
saw that the one best thing for them to do was to be victorious. Where
voluntary recruiting had failed to produce what was needed, a strong and
disciplined army, compulsion was succeeding. One effort more, and the
Republic would be saved.

After a half hour of semi-consciousness, Fortune Trubert's face,
hollow-cheeked and worn by disease, lit up again and his hands moved.

He lifted his finger and pointed to the only piece of furniture in the
room, a little walnut-wood writing-desk. The voice was weak and
breathless, but the mind quite unclouded:

"Like Eudamidas," he said, "I bequeath my debts to my friend,--three
hundred and twenty livres, of which you will find the account ... in
that red book yonder ... good-bye, Gamelin. Never rest; wake and watch
over the defence of the Republic. _Ca ira._"

The shades of night were deepening in the cell. The difficult breathing
of the dying man was the only sound, and his hands scratching on the
sheet.

At midnight he uttered some disconnected phrases:

"More saltpetre.... See the muskets are delivered. Health? Oh!
excellent.... Get down the church-bells...."

He breathed his last at five in the morning.

By order of the Section his body lay in state in the nave of the
erstwhile church of the Barnabites, at the foot of the Altar of the
Fatherland, on a camp bed, covered with a tricolour flag and the brow
wreathed with an oak crown.

Twelve old men clad in the Roman toga, with palms in their hands, twelve
young girls wearing long veils and carrying flowers, surrounded the
funeral couch. At the dead man's feet stood two children, each holding
an inverted torch. One of them Evariste recognized as his _concierge's_
little daughter Josephine, who in her childish gravity and beauty
reminded him of those charming genii of Love and Death the Romans used
to sculpture on their tombs.

The funeral procession made its way to the Cemetery of
Saint-Andre-des-Arts to the strains of the _Marseillaise_ and the
_Ca-ira_.

As he laid the kiss of farewell on Fortune Trubert's brow, Evariste
wept. His tears flowed in self-pity, for he envied his friend who was
resting there, his task accomplished.

On reaching home, he received notice that he was posted a member of the
Council General of the Commune. After standing as candidate for four
months, he had been el