"I beg your pardon," said Fitzgerald in French.

"It is of no consequence," replied the stranger, laughing. "This is
always a devil of a corner on a windy day." His French had a slight
German twist to it.

Briefly they inspected each other, as strangers will, carelessly, with
annoyance and amusement interplaying in their eyes and on their lips,
all in a trifling moment. Then each raised his hat and proceeded, as
tranquilly and unconcernedly as though destiny had no ulterior motive
in bringing them thus really together. And yet, when they had passed
and disappeared from each other's view, both were struck with the fact
that somewhere they had met before.

Fitzgerald went into the tomb, his head bared. The marble underfoot
bore the imprint of many shoes and rubbers and hobnails, of all sizes
and--mayhap--of all nations. He recollected, with a burn on his
cheeks, a sacrilege of his raw and eager youth, some twelve years
since; he had forgotten to take off his hat. Never would he forget the
embarrassment of that moment when the attendant peremptorily bade him
remove it. He, to have forgotten! He, who held Napoleon above all
heroes! The shame of it!

To-day many old soldiers were gathered meditatively round the heavy
circular railing. They were always drawn hither on memorable
anniversaries. Their sires and grandsires had carried some of those
tattered flags, had won them. The tides of time might ebb and flow,
but down there, in his block of Siberian porphyry, slept the hero.
There were some few tourists about this afternoon, muttering over their