ed herself with
her back against the board, grasping the reins of Balthazar, who started
off drowsily, swaying his ears once more. The other waggons followed,
and the procession resumed its lazy march through the darkness, whilst
the rhythmical jolting of the wheels again awoke the echoes of the
sleepy house fronts, and the waggoners, wrapped in their cloaks, dozed
off afresh. The one who had called to Madame Francois growled out as he
lay down: "As if we'd nothing better to do than pick up every drunken
sot we come across! You're a scorcher, old woman!"

The waggons rumbled on, and the horses picked their own way, with
drooping heads. The stranger whom Madame Francois had befriended was
lying on his stomach, with his long legs lost amongst the turnips which
filled the back part of the cart, whilst his face was buried amidst the
spreading piles of carrot bunches. With weary, extended arms he clutched
hold of his vegetable couch in fear of being thrown to the ground by one
of the waggon's jolts, and his eyes were fixed on the two long lines of
gas lamps which stretched away in front of him till they mingled with a
swarm of other lights in the distance atop of the slope. Far away on the
horizon floated a spreading, whitish vapour, showing where Paris slept
amidst the luminous haze of all those flamelets.

"I come from Nanterre, and my name's Madame Francois," said the market
gardener presently. "Since my poor man died I go to the markets every
morning myself. It's a hard life, as you may guess. And who are you?"

"My name's Florent, I come from a distance," replied the stranger, with
embarrassment. "Please excuse me, but I'm really so tired that it is
painful to me to talk."

He was evidently unwilling to say anything more, and so Madame Francois
relapsed into silence, and allowed the reins to fall loosely on the
back of Balthazar, who went his way like an animal acquainted with every
stone of the road.

Meantime, with his eyes still fixed upon the far-spreading glare of
Paris, Florent was pondering over the story which he had refused to
communicate to Madame Francois. After making his escape from Cayenne,
whither he had been transported for his participation in the resistance
to Louis Napoleon's Coup d'Etat, he had wandered about Dutch Guiana
for a couple of years, burning to return to France, yet dreading the
Imperial police. At last, however, he once more saw before him the
beloved and mighty city which he had so