lying upon a mattress thrown upon the ground.

They had established, in case of need, another ambulance in the Rue du
Cadran. An opening had been effected at the corner of the barricade on
this side, so that the wounded could be easily carried away.

Towards half-past nine in the evening a man came up to the barricade.

Jeanty Sarre recognized him.

"Good day, Denis," said he.

"Call me, Gaston," said the man.

"Why?"

"Because--"

"Are you your brother?"

"Yes, I am my brother. For to-day."

"Very well. Good-day, Gaston."

They heartily shook hands.

It was Denis Dussoubs.

He was pale, calm, and bleeding; he had already been fighting during the
morning. At the barricade of the Faubourg Saint Martin a ball had grazed
his breast, but had been turned off by some money in his pocket, and had
only broken the skin. He had had the rare good fortune of being
scratched by a ball. It was like the first touch from the claws of
death. He wore a cap, his hat having been left behind in the barricade
where he had fought: and he had replaced his bullet-pierced overcoat,
which was made of Belleisle cloth, by a pea-jacket bought at a
slop-shop.

How had he reached the barricade of the Petit Carreau? He could not say.
He had walked straight before him. He had glided from street to street.
Chance takes the predestined by the hand, and leads them straight to
their goal through the thick darkness.

At the moment when he entered the barricade they cried out to him, "Who
goes there?" He answered, "The Republic!"

They saw Jeanty Sarre shake him by the hand. They asked Jeanty Sarre,--

"Who is he?"

Jeanty Sarre answered,--

"It is some one."

And he added,--

"We were only sixty a short time since. We are a hundred now."

All pressed round the new-comer. Jeanty Sarre offered him the command.

"No," said he, "I do not understand the tactics of barricade fighting. I
should be a bad chief, but I am a good soldier. Give me a gun."

They seated themselves on the paving-stones. They exchanged their
experiences of what had been done. Denis described to them the fighting
on the Faubourg Saint Martin. Jeanty Sarre told Denis of the fighting in
the Rue Saint Denis.

During all this time the generals were preparing a final assault,--what
the Marquis of Clermont-Tonnerre, in 1822, called the "Coup de Collier,"
and what, in 1789, the Prince of Lambese had called the "Coup de Bas."
Throughout all Paris there was now only