honor."

"Yes, the affair of the pictures," said Monsieur Mouilleron. "Those
pictures caused a very hot quarrel between them yesterday, and it is a
word and a blow with artists, they tell me."

"Who is there in Issoudun who had any object in killing Gilet?" said
Lousteau. "No one,--neither a jealous husband nor anybody else; for
the fellow has never harmed a soul."

"But what was Monsieur Gilet doing in the streets at four in the
morning?" remarked Monsieur Hochon.

"Now, Monsieur Hochon, you must allow us to manage this affair in our
own way," answered Mouilleron; "you don't know all: Gilet recognized
your painter."

At this instant a clamor was heard from the other end of the town,
growing louder and louder, like the roll of thunder, as it followed
the course of the Grande-Narette.

"Here he is! here he is!--he's arrested!"

These words rose distinctly on the ear above the hoarse roar of the
populace. Poor Joseph, returning quietly past the mill at Landrole
intending to get home in time for breakfast, was spied by the various
groups of people, as soon as he reached the place Misere. Happily for
him, a couple of gendarmes arrived on a run in time to snatch him from
the inhabitants of the faubourg de Rome, who had already pinioned him
by the arms and were threatening him with death.

"Give way! give way!" cried the gendarmes, calling to some of their
comrades to help them, and putting themselves one before and the other
behind Bridau.

"You see, monsieur," said the one who held the painter, "it concerns
our skin as well as yours at this moment. Innocent or guilty, we must
protect you against the tumult raised by the murder of Captain Gilet.
And the crowd is not satisfied with suspecting you; they declare, hard
as iron, that you are the murderer. Monsieur Gilet is adored by all
the people, who--look at them!--want to take justice into their own
hands. Ah! didn't we see them, in 1830, dusting the jackets of the
tax-gatherers? whose life isn't a bed of roses, anyway!"

Joseph Bridau grew pale as death, and collected all his strength to
walk onward.

"After all," he said, "I am innocent. Go on!"

Poor artist! he was forced to bear his cross. Amid the hooting and
insults and threats from the mob, he made the dreadful transit from
the place Misere to the place Saint-Jean. The gendarmes were obliged
to draw their sabres on the furious mob, which pelted them with
stones. One of the officers was wounded, and Jos