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was glorious. He went everywhere, singing your Song, and wherever we sang it we conquered. But we had not leaders enough.'

'Where was de Civrac?'

'I do not know. They say he joined the enemy.' 'That he did not.'

'He held out for peace till there was no hope any longer. Then he was for crushing the insurrection at once by force of arms. It could have been done, Sylvestre; it would have been more merciful in the end, but they would not listen to him. They wanted rebellion so that they might revenge themselves.'

'You will never win if you have de Civrac against you,' said Lucien slowly. 'Why did you run away?' 'To find you.'

'What do you mean?'

'It was your Song that made us win. If I could but find you, I knew you would lead.'

'I will,' said Lucien. 'Where can I meet Blum?'

He lives still in the old house. It has not been hurt. They are strong yet in the quarter of the Cordeliers.'

Lucien took the boy's hand.

'Farewell!' he said, and went.

Along the desolate, deserted quays he walkedthrough the long streets of burnt and desecrated. houses, room after room where quiet mysteries of birth and death had passed lying now pitifully naked to the cold light. Those houses that still stood were locked and barred, and not a face showed at any window. For the moment there was a lull. The soldiers were on guard. The barricades were manned by silent, eager combatants, but they had not yet been

attacked. The rebels had found two pieces of cannon at St. Irénée and dragged them up to the heights of Fourvières, whence they were shelling the Place Bellecour with bits of iron and powder dried in the

sun.

Around the Church of the Cordeliers, however, all was different.

As Lucien turned the corner of the street in which he had lived with Blum and Mademoiselle Jeanne, he felt amazed to see a familiar figure by the Fountain where once he stood to sing his Song. It was Blum, haranguing a vast and restless crowd, his face resolute as ever, but thin and worn, his eyes full of fire.

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'Here where I now stand!' he cried, there stood among you, just two years ago, a poet-one who would have made Lyons famous. Where is he at this moment? Who knows? Who knows? He is dead, perhaps, the victim of political intrigue, the martyr of the people. You who have his words by heart, you to whom liberty to sing the song of freedom is dear as life, say, will you not deliver or avenge him? All those who agree with me follow me to the Church of the Cordeliers! We are still strong there. All those who agree with. me hold up their hands and shout "To-morrow!

The shout that arose far and near deafened Lucien; he put his hands to his ears. A man behind pulled them down roughly.

'You never shouted!' he exclaimed. "Cry "Tomorrow," or I denounce you as a spy of the Government.'

'To-morrow!' Lucien shouted.

'Police! police!'

The warning notes rang from a window close at

hand. The old cry cleared the street just as it had done two years ago. Blum vanished in the swarm of his adherents, and Lucien pursued his way alone to the house.

He stole up quietly, opened the door without noise. In the well-remembered room everything was the same. It was as he had often pictured it in the days of his captivity, bright with the cheerful light of the sun, the first glimmer of gold showing among the green spiky cages of the crocus leaves at the window. Only one thing was changed the only thing he looked for. Jeanne sat there not at work, but with a child on her knee.

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A jealous pang shot through him. She was counting its fingers, and every time she counted them she kissed them, while the baby laughed.

'Jeanne!' said he angrily.

She sat the child down on the floor. She rose, and she fell back again, and no word came to help her. Such a wild light of love leapt to her blue eyes that Lucien trembled as at a vision.

She never heard the child, though it was crying. 'Not her baby!' thought Lucien, and bent down to soothe it.

Suddenly she became aware, stooped, caught it to her breast.

'Ah! if she held a child of mine

His own thought seized him, turned him to stone. She quieted the frightened baby and took it out. He watched her go across the street. He watched her swift return. She went and came in a flash, yet she was careful to close the door behind her. As she stood up against it he saw how beautiful she was

that she was pale-that her hands were almost transparent.

'Jeanne! Jeanne!' he cried. 'Why do you look like that?'

She did not answer, yet he seemed to hear her saying:

'You ask? It is a year, and half a year, since that day'

'Jeanne!' he said.

'Dear Jeanne!' But still she did not speak.

He caught her silence. The room was swimming, humming round them both. A loud noise beat at his heart.

'Jeanne! dearest Jeanne!' he whispered. Now— always-both together!'

And in her happy heart Jeanne cried ' At last!' but with her lips she only said:

'Lucien, it is too soon!'

CHAPTER XL

DAWN

'You thought you could not write Songs if you cared for me,' said Jeanne.

'I was a fool!' said Lucien, with conviction.

The day was wearing to its end. The sun had vanished early behind clouds that were dark with the whiteness that would soon cover the earth. Neither of them noticed it. Jeanne, the practical Jeanne, had forgotten everything. One duty she recollected, as, for the first time, she heard the city clocks give out the hour.

'I must go to the Church of the Cordeliers,' she said. I have gone there every day to ask that you might be set free. I want to go now.'

'I will go with you,' said Lucien.

'Monsieur de Civrac is here every morning to know if you have come, and Charles Blum every night. They both expected you. Charles Blum hates the marquis more than ever; but I think the marquis does not know he exists. How did you escape? Tell me!'

'I was released without a word. I found that I was within a few miles of Morfontaine, and I walked there.'

Monsieur de Civrac told me he had some papers of yours that might embarrass the Government. He threatened at last to publish them if you were not released. He said that monsieur Berryer would pre

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