till late at night, he would make his way back, with weary limbs
and aching ribs, his head whirling confusedly with bombast and
loud talk, through the sleeping city to the Faubourg Saint-Germain.
There, as he strode past some aristocratic mansion and saw the
scutcheon blazoned on its façade and the two lions lying white
in the moonlight on guard before its closed portal, he would
cast a look of hatred at the building. Presently, as he resumed
his march, he would picture himself standing, musket in hand, on
a barricade, in the smoke of insurrection, along with workmen
and young fellows from the schools, as we see it all represented
in lithographs.

One day in July, he saw a troop of white blouses moving along
the boulevard and shouting: "To Berlin!" Ragamuffin street-boys
ran yelping round. Respectable citizens lined the sidewalks,
staring in wonder, and saying nothing; but one of them, a stout,
tall, red-faced man, waved his hat and shouted:

"To Berlin! long live the Emperor!"

Jean recognized Monsieur Bargemont.




XXVIII

On top of the ramparts. Bivouac huts and stacked rifles guarded
by a sentinel. National Guards are playing shove ha'-penny. The
autumn sunshine lies clear and soft and splendid on the roofs