feet; but sometimes, Martial, the smallest may be
useful to the greatest."

"One day, perhaps, you may see him."

"Oh, no; he said to me, 'My good fellow, you must promise never to seek
nor see me,--that will be doing me a service.' So, of course, Martial, I
promised; and I'll keep my word, though it is very hard."

"Once at Algeria, you will forget all your vexations."

"Yes, yes; I'm an old trooper, Martial, and will face the Bedouins."

"Come, come, you'll soon recover your spirits. We'll farm and hunt
together, and live together, or separate, just as you like. We'll bring
up the children like honest people, and you shall be their uncle,--for
we are brothers, and my wife is good at heart; and so we'll be happy,
eh?" And Martial extended his hand to the Chourineur.

"So we will, Martial," was the reply; "and my sorrow will kill me, or I
shall kill my sorrow."

"It will not kill you. We shall pass our days together; and every
evening we will say, 'brother, thanks to M. Rodolph,'--that shall be our
prayer to, him."

"Martial, you comfort me."

"Well, then, that is all right; and as to that stupid-dream, you will
think no more of it, I hope?"

"I'll try."

"Well, then, you'll come to us at four o'clock; the diligence goes at
five."

"Agreed. But I will get out here and walk to the barrier at Charenton,
where I will await M. Rodolph, that I may see him pass."

The coach stopped, and the Chourineur alighted.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FINGER OF PROVIDENCE.

The Chourineur had forgotten that it was the day after mid-Lent, and was
consequently greatly surprised at the sight, at once hideous and
singular, which presented itself to his view when he arrived at the
exterior boulevard, which he was traversing to reach the barrier of
Charenton.

He found himself suddenly in the thickest of a dense throng of people,
who were coming out of the cabarets of the Faubourg de la Glaciere, in
order to reach the Boulevard St. Jacques, where the execution was to
take place.

Although it was broad daylight, there was still heard the noisy music of
the public-houses, whence issued particularly the loud echoes of the
cornets-a-piston. The pencil of Callot, of Rembrandt, or of Goya is
requisite to limn the strange, hideous, and fantastical appearance of
this multitude.

Almost all of them, men, women, and children, were attired in old
masquerade costumes. Those who could not afford this expense had on
their clothes ra