dozen words of command were shouted, and upon them followed the sharp
click of hilt on scabbard as the sabres fell home.

After a pause it became evident that the barricade was being destroyed.
And then lights flashed here and there. In a compact column the cavalry
advanced at a trot. The street was empty.

Citizen Morot turned away and sat down on a chair that happened to be
placed near the window. His finely-drawn eyebrows were raised with a
questioning weariness.

"Pretty work!" he ejaculated. "Pretty work for--my father's son! So
grand, so open, so noble!"

He waited there, in the darkness, until the cavalry had been withdrawn
and the local firemen were at work upon the barricade. Then, when order
was fully restored, he left the house, walking quietly down the length
of the insignificant little street.

Ten minutes later he entered the tobacco-shop in the Rue St. Gingolphe.
Mr. Jacquetot was at his post, behind the counter near the window, with
the little tin box containing postage-stamps in front of him upon his
desk. He was always there--like the poor. He laid aside the _Petit
Journal_ and wished the new-comer a courteous, though breathless,
good evening.

The salutation was returned gravely and pleasantly. The Citizen Morot
lingered a moment and remarked that it was a warm evening. He never
seemed to be in a hurry. Then he passed on into the little room behind
the shop.