"Clemenceau?" echoed the student, remembering what he had heard in the
music-hall.

"Yes; your father was the famous sculptor."

Was his predilection for art a hereditary trait? the son of a celebrity?
then his essays in design were unworthy of his name. Abashed, inclined
to despair, having a glimpse of a tumultuous rabble shouting: "At last
he is here!" before the ruddy guillotine on a raw morning, a pale, prim
man between the executioner's aids, the young Clemenceau listened to the
girl, who probably resembled the Lovely Iza, but looked at the dead
woman at their feet.

"Yes, we are cousins! that is why I took a fancy to you at the sight. I
knew this time I loved for a good reason. The band of nature--the bond
of blood--connected us! But this is not the place or time to pluck
leaves, and compare them, from our genealogical tree. The major has
succeeded in reining in his horse, but, who cares? the old farmhouse
stood a siege in the Great Napoleon's time and could mock at him now.
Leave all--all these cooling pieces of carrion, and my dear grandma!"
she sneered, "and let us hasten to the house where I have friends."

Like a man in a dream, Claudius, or, better, Felix Clemenceau, since
this was his true title, holding the half-emptied revolver by his side,
automatically allowed the strange creature to lead him from the
battlefield. He was oppressed by the magnitude of the ruin he left
behind: the peaceful student to whom the pencil and the eraser were
alone familiar had handled firearms like "the professor" in a shooting
gallery. And then the assertion--or revelation--that he was of kin not