. Gerard thought
he discerned in Combarieu one of those superior men whom a cruel fate
had caused to be born among the lower class and in whom poverty had
stifled genius.

Enlightened as to the artist's political preferences by the bowl of his
pipe, Combarieu complacently eulogized himself. Upon his own admission
he had at first been foolish enough to dream of a universal brotherhood,
a holy alliance of the people. He had even written poems which he
had published himself, notably an "Ode to Poland," and an "Epistle
to Beranger," which latter had evoked an autograph letter from the
illustrious song-writer. But he was no longer such a simpleton.

"When one has seen what we have seen during June, and on the second
of December, there is no longer any question of sentiment." Here
the engraver, as a hospitable host, brought a bottle of wine and two
glasses. "No, Monsieur Gerard, I thank you, I take nothing between my
meals. The workingmen have been deceived too often, and at the next
election we shall not let the bourgeoisie strangle the Republic." (M.
Gerard had now uncorked the bottle.) "Only a finger! Enough! Enough!
simply so as not to refuse you. While waiting, let us prepare ourselves.
Just now the Eastern question muddles us, and behold 'Badinguet,'--[A
nickname given to Napoleon III.]--with a big affair upon his hands. You
have some wine here that is worth drinking. If he loses one battle he
is done for. One glass more? Ah! you make me depart from my usual
custom--absolutely done for. But this time we shall keep our eyes
open. No half measures! We will return to the great methods of
'ninety-three--the Committee of Public Safety, the Law of Suspects,
the Revolutionary Tribunal, every damned one of them! and, if it is
necessary, a permanent guillotine! To your good health!"

So much energy frightened Father Gerard a little; for in spite of his
Barbes pipe-bowl he was not a genuine red-hot Republican. He dared not
protest, however, and blushed a little as he thought that the night
before an editor had proposed to him to engrave a portrait of the new
Empress, very decollete, and showing her famous shoulders, and that he
had not said No; for his daughters needed new shoes, and his wife had
declared the day before that she had not a gown to put on.

So for several months he had four children--Amedee, Louise, Maria, and
little Rose Combarieu--to make a racket in his apartment. Certainly they
were no longer babies; they d