tar we raise our prayer; deign to restore us, O Lord, our free
country." Into almost all of them the soldiers have forced their way to
make arrests.

Paul Deulin walked slowly up the faubourg towards the new town. The
clocks were striking the hour. He took off his hat, and gave a little
sigh of enjoyment of the fresh air and bright sun.

"Just Heaven, forgive me!" he said, with upturned eyes. "I have already
told several lies, and it is only eight o'clock. I wonder whether I
shall find Cartoner out of bed?"

He walked on in a leisurely way, brushing past Jew and Gentile, gay
Cossack officers, and that dull Polish peasant who has assuredly lived
through greater persecution than any other class of men. He turned
to the right up a broad street and then to the left into a narrower,
quieter thoroughfare, called the Jasna. The houses in the Jasna
are mostly large, with court-yards, where a few trees struggle for
existence. They are let out in flats, or in even smaller apartments,
where quiet people live--professors, lawyers, and other persons,
who have an interest within themselves and are not dependent on the
passer-by for entertainment.

Into one of these large houses Deulin turned, and gave his destination
to the Russian doorkeeper as he passed the lodge. This was the second
floor, and the door was opened by a quick-mannered man, to whom the
Frenchman nodded familiarly.

"Is he up yet?" he inquired, and called the man by his Christian name.

"This hour, monsieur," replied the servant, leading the way along a
narrow corridor. He opened a door, and stood aside for Deulin to pass
into a comfortably furnished room, where Cartoner was seated at a
writing-table.

"Good-morning," said the Frenchman. As he passed the table he took up a
book and went towards the window, where he sat down in a deep arm-chair.
"Don't let me disturb you," he continued. "Finish what you are doing."

"News?" inquired Cartoner, laying aside his pen. He looked at
Deulin gravely beneath his thoughtful brows. They were marvellously
dissimilar--these friends.

"Bah!" returned Deulin, throwing aside the book he had picked
up--Lelewel's _History of Poland_, in Polish. "I trouble for your
future, Cartoner. You take life so seriously--you, who need not work
at all. Even uncles cannot live forever, and some day you will be in a
position to lend money to poor devils of French diplomatists. Think of
that!"

He reflected for a moment.

"Yes," he said,