Ah! but--and here again he
glanced over the paper--he was asked "not to act; but to observe." To
observe was the duty of a journalist. He might go to the demonstration
as De Mauleon confessed he had gone to the Communist Club, a
philosophical spectator.

"You do not disobey this order?" said the Pole, crossing his arms.

"I shall certainly go into the Faubourg du Temple this evening,"
answered Rameau, drily, "I have business that way."

"Bon!" said the Pole; "I did not think you would fail us, though you do
edit a journal which says not a word on the duties that bind the French
people to the resuscitation of Poland."

"And is not pronounced in decided accents upon the cause of the human
race," put in the Italian, whispering.

"I do not write the political articles in Le Seas Commun," answered
Rameau; "and I suppose that our president is satisfied with them since
he recommended me to the preference of the person who does. Have you
more to say? Pardon me, my time is precious, for it does not belong to
me."

"Eno'!" said the Italian, "we will detain you no longer." Here, with a
bow and a smile, he glided towards the door.

"Confrere," muttered the Pole, lingering, "you must have become
very rich!--do not forget the wrongs of Poland--I am their
Representative--I--speaking in that character, not as myself
individually--I have not breakfasted!"

Rameau, too thoroughly Parisian not to be as lavish of his own money as
he was envious of another's, slipped some pieces of gold in the Pole's
hand. The Pole's bosom heaved with manly emotion: "These pieces bear the
effigies of the tyrant--I accept them as redeemed from disgrace by their
uses to Freedom."

"Share them with Signor Raselli in the name of the same cause,"
whispered Rameau, with a smile he might have plagiarised from De
Mauleon.

The Italian, whose ear was inured to whispers, heard and turned round as
he stood at the threshold.

"No, confrere of France--no, confrere of Poland--I am Italian. All ways
to take the life of an enemy are honourable--no way is honourable which
begs money from a friend."

An hour or so later, Rameau was driven in his comfortable coupe to the
Faubourg du Temple.

Suddenly, at the angle of a street, his coachman was stopped--a
rough-looking man appeared at the door--__"Descends, mon petit
bourgeois__." Behind the rough-looking man were menacing faces.

Rameau was not physically a coward--very few Frenchmen are, still fewer
Pari