was a
hard winter and wood was scarce), or else scour the boulevards and
mix with the throng of idlers in search of news. One evening, early
in January, as he was passing the corner of the _Rue Drouot_, his
attention was attracted by the clamour of voices, and he saw
Monsieur Bargemont being roughly handled by an ill-looking gang
of National Guards.

"I am a better Republican than any of you," the big man was
vociferating; "I have always protested against the infamies of
the Empire. But when you shout: Vive Blanqui!... excuse me...
I have a right to shout: Vive Jules Favre! excuse me, I have a
perfect right----" But his voice was drowned in a chorus of yells.
Men in _kepis_ shook their fists at him, shouting: "Traitor! no
surrender! down with Badinguet!" His broad face, distraught with
terror, still bore traces of its erstwhile look of smug effrontery.
A girl in the crowd shrieked: "Throw him in the river!" and a
hundred voices took up the cry. But just at that moment the crowd
swayed back violently and Monsieur Bargemont darted into the
forecourt of the _Mairie_. A squad of police officers received
him in their ranks and closed in round him. He was saved!

Little by little the crowd melted away, and Jean heard a dozen
different versions of the incident as it travelled with
ever-increasing exaggeration from mouth to mouth. The last comers
learned the startling news that they had just arrested a German
general officer, who had sneaked into Paris as a spy to betray
the city to the enemy with the connivance of the Bonapartists.

The streets being once more passable, Jean saw Monsieur Bargemont
come out of the _Mairie_. He was very red and a sleeve of his
overcoat was torn away.

Jean made up his mind to follow him.

Along the boulevards he kept him in view at a distance, and not
much caring whether he lost track of him or no; but when the
Functionary turned up a cross street, the young man closed in
on his quarry. He had no particular suspicion even now; a mere
instinct urged him to dog the man's heels. Monsieur Bargemont
wheeled to the right, into a fairly broad street, empty and badly
lighted by petroleum flares that supplied the place of the gas
lamps. It was the one street Jean knew better than another. He
had been there so often and often! The shape of the doors, the
colour of the shop-fronts, the lettering on the sign-boards,
everything about it was familiar; not a thing in it, down to
the night-bell at the