_"C'est moi,"_ I answered, (with a very decent accent which I had
cultivated by the daily use of a mild decoction of alum-water--an
application which I can cordially recommend to Americans who do not
naturally possess that peculiar "pucker" of the lips essential to the
correct pronunciation of the French language.)

_"C'est moi, mon ami,"_ I repeated.

"The countersign," said the _garde_.

"What countersign?" said I, remembering to my consternation that I had
forgotten to secure that important credential.

The sentry brought his piece to that position which usually precedes the
order "Take aim." I got back a few feet--the situation was too close.

_"Mon ami,"_ I ventured to observe, "that ain't the way we treat
noncombatants in America."

"The countersign," reiterated the _garde_, still holding his _chassepot_
in the previous threatening manner.

I looked up. The stars were in the quiet sky, and the new moon was just
sinking beneath the bold outline of Mount Valerien. The surge of the
Seine against the stone piers of the bridge could be distinctly heard.
The scene was unspeakably tranquil, not to say mournful, and I said to
myself, "Is this a night for assassination?"

Again I looked up, and I saw the gleam of two more bayonets at the other