r own homes by sowing discontent and alarm in the soul of
its defenders.... Greeting and farewell, _citoyen_ Blaise."

Before turning down the alley that runs alongside the Oratoire, Gamelin,
his heart big with love and anger, wheeled round for a last look at the
red carnations blossoming on a certain window-sill.

He did not despair; the fatherland would yet be saved. Against Jean
Blaise's unpatriotic speeches he set his faith in the Revolution. Still
he was bound to recognize that the tradesman had some show of reason
when he asserted that the people of Paris had lost its old interest in
public events. Alas! it was but too manifest that to the enthusiasm of
the early days had little by little succeeded a widespread indifference,
that never again would be seen the mighty crowds, unanimous in their
ardour, of '89, never again the millions, one in heart and soul, that in
'90 thronged round the altar of the _federes_. Well, good citizens must
show double zeal and courage, must rouse the people from its apathy,
bidding it choose between liberty and death.

Such were Gamelin's thoughts, and the memory of Elodie was a spur to his
confidence.

Coming to the Quais, he saw the sun setting in the distant west behind
lowering clouds that were like mountains of glowing lava; the roofs of
the city were bathed in a golden light; the windows flashed back a
thousand dazzling reflections. And Gamelin pictured the Titans forging
out of the molten fragments of by-gone worlds Dike, the city of brass.

Not having a morsel of bread for his mother or himself, he was dreaming
of a place at the limitless board that should have all the world for
guests and welcome regenerated humanity to the feast. Meantime, he tried
to persuade himself that the fatherland, as a good mother should, would
feed her faithful child. Shutting his mind against the gibes of the
printseller, he forced himself to believe that his notion of a
Revolutionary pack of cards was a novel one and a good one, and that
with these happily conceived sketches of his he held a fortune in the
portfolio under his arm. "Desmahis," he told himself, "shall engrave
them. We will publish for ourselves the new patriotic toy and we are
sure to sell ten thousand packs in a month, at twenty _sols_ apiece."

In his impatience to realize the project, he strode off at once for the
Quai de la Ferraille, where Desmahis lived over a glazier's shop.

The entrance was through the shop. The glazie