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There was one memory, however, that remained very distinct to Maurice’s mind: his unexpected meeting with Jean. It was three days now since the latter had reached Paris, without a sou in his pocket, emaciated and enfeebled by the illness that had consigned him to a hospital in Brussels and kept him there two months, and having had the luck to fall in with Captain Ravaud, who had commanded a company in the 106th, he had enlisted at once in his former acquaintance’s new company in the 124th. His old rank as corporal had been restored to him, and that evening he had just left the Prince Eugene barracks with his squad on his way to the left bank, where the entire army was to concentrate, when a mob collected about his men and stopped them as they were passing along the boulevard Saint-Martin. The insurgents yelled and shouted, and evidently were preparing to disarm his little band. With perfect coolness he told them to let him alone, that he had no business with them or their affairs; all he wanted was to obey his orders without harming anybody. Then a cry of glad surprise was heard, and Maurice, who had chanced to pass that way, threw himself on the other’s neck and gave him a brotherly hug.

“What, is it you! My sister wrote me about you. And just think, no later than this very morning I was going to look you up at the war office!”

Jean’s eyes were dim with big tears of pleasure.

“Ah, my dear lad how glad I am to see you once more! I have been looking for you, too, but where could a fellow expect to find you in this confounded great big place?”

To the crowd, continuing their angry muttering, Maurice turned and said:

“Let me talk to them, citizens! They’re good fellows; I’ll answer for them.” He took his friend’s hands in his, and lowering his voice: “You’ll join us, won’t you?”

Jean’s face was the picture of surprise. “How, join you? I don’t understand.” Then for a moment he listened while Maurice railed against the government, against the army, raking up old sores and recalling all their sufferings, telling how at last they were going to be masters, punish dolts and cowards and preserve the Republic. And as he struggled to get the problems the other laid before him through his brain, the tranquil face of the unlettered peasant was clouded with an increasing sorrow. “Ah, no! ah, no! my boy. I can’t join you if it’s for that fine work you want me. My captain told me to go with my men to Vaugirard, and there I’m going. In spite of the devil and his angels I will go there. That’s natural enough; you ought to know how it is yourself.” He laughed with frank simplicity and added:

“It’s you who’ll come along with us.”

But Maurice released his hands with an angry gesture of dissent, and thus they stood for some seconds, face to face, one under the influence of that madness that was sweeping all Paris off its feet, the malady that had been bequeathed to them by the crimes and follies of the late reign, the other strong in his ignorance and practical common sense, untainted as yet because he had grown up apart from the contaminating principle, in the land where industry and thrift were honored. They were brothers, however, none the less; the tie that united them was strong, and it was a pang to them both when the crowd suddenly surged forward and parted them.

“Au revoir, Maurice!”

“Au revoir, Jean!”

It was a regiment, the 79th, debouching from a side street, that had caused the movement among the crowd, forcing the rioters back to the sidewalks by the weight of its compact column, closed in mass. There was some hooting, but no one ventured to bar the way against the soldier boys, who went by at double time, well under control of their officers. An opportunity was afforded the little squad of the 124th to make their escape, and they followed in the wake of the larger body.

“Au revoir, Jean!”