to belong to them, the same thought almost always recurred to his
mind as he stood there. Then followed the same daily wondering as
to how all these things were to end; whether he should for years
to come wear the red sash and the yellow gaiters, a corporal of
Zouaves, and whether for years he should ask himself every day the
same question. Presently, as the light faded from the houses of
the Borgo, he turned away with an imperceptible shrug of the
shoulders and continued his walk upon the narrow pavement at the
side of the bridge. As he descended the step at the end, to the
level of the square, a small bright object in a crevice of the
stones attracted his attention. He stooped and picked it up.

It was a little gold pin, some two inches long, the head beaten
out and twisted into the shape of the letter C. Gouache examined
it attentively, and saw that it must have been long used, for it
was slightly bent in more than one place as though it had often
been thrust through some thick material. It told no other tale of
its possessor, however, and the young man slipped it into his
pocket and went on his way, idly wondering to whom the thing
belonged. He reflected that if he had been bent on any important
matter he would probably have considered the finding of a bit of
gold as a favourable omen; but he was merely returning to his
lodging as usual, and had no engagement for the evening. Indeed,
he expected no event in his life at that time, and following the
train of his meditation he smiled a little when he thought that he
was not even in love. For a Frenchman, nearly thirty years of age,
the position was an unusual one enough. In Gouache's case it was
especially remarkable. Women liked him, he liked them, and he was
constantly in the society of some of the most beautiful in the
world. Nevertheless, he turned from one to another and found a