instances? And what is history but the repetition of events under
similar circumstances with different peoples. It will come in France,
and it will come soon, for it is very direly needed."

"I know, I know, old master," broke in La Boulaye; "but how shall all
this help me? For all that I have the welfare of France at heart, it
weighs little with me at the moment by comparison with my own affairs.
What am I to do, Duhamel? How am I to take payment for this?" And he
pressed his finger to his seared cheek.

"Wait," said the old man impressively. "That is the moral you might
have drawn from what I have said. Be patient. I promise you your
patience shall not be overtaxed. To-day they say that you presume;
that you are not one of them - although, by my soul, you have as
good an air as any nobleman in France." And he eyed the lean height
of the secretary with a glance of such pride as a father might take
in a well-grown son.

Elegant of figure, La Boulaye was no less elegant in dress, for all
that, from head to foot - saving the silver buckles on his shoes and
the unpretentious lace at throat and wrists - he was dressed in the
black that his office demanded. His countenance, too, though cast
in a mould of thoughtfulness that bordered on the melancholy, bore
a lofty stamp that might have passed for birth and breeding, and
this was enhanced by the careful dressing of his black unpowdered
hair, gathered into a club by a broad ribbon of black silk.

"But what shall waiting avail me?" cried the young man, with some
impatience. "What am I to do in the meantime?"