ed certain republican notions which he had hitherto conceived
himself to have thoroughly digested.

The carriage drew up at the barrier, checked there by a picket of the
National Guard posted before the iron gates.

The sergeant in command strode to the door of the vehicle. The Countess
put her head from the window.

"The barrier is closed, madame," she was curtly informed.

"Closed!" she echoed. The thing was incredible. "But... but do you mean
that we cannot pass?"

"Not unless you have a permit, madame." The sergeant leaned nonchalantly
on his pike. "The orders are that no one is to leave or enter without
proper papers."

"Whose orders?"

"Orders of the Commune of Paris."

"But I must go into the country this evening." Madame's voice was almost
petulant. "I am expected."

"In that case let madame procure a permit."

"Where is it to be procured?"

"At the Hotel de Ville or at the headquarters of madame's section."

She considered a moment. "To the section, then. Be so good as to tell my
coachman to drive to the Bondy Section."

He saluted her and stepped back. "Section Bondy, Rue des Morts," he bade
the driver.

Madame sank into her seat again, in a state of agitation fully shared
by mademoiselle. Rougane set himself to pacify and reassure them. The
section would put the matter in order. They would most certainly be
accorded a permit. What possible reason could there be for refusing
them? A mere formality, after all!

His assurance uplifted them merely to prepare them for a still more
profound dejection when presently they met with a flat refusal from the
president of the section who received the Countess.

"Your name, madame?" he had asked brusquely. A rude fellow of the most
advanced republican type, he had not even risen out of deference to
the ladies when they entered. He was there, he would have told you, to
perform the duties of his office, not to give dancing-lessons.

"Plougastel," he repeated after her, without title, as if it had been
the name of a butcher or baker. He took down a heavy volume from a shelf
on his right, opened it and turned the pages. It was a sort of directory
of his section. Presently he found what he sought. "Comte de Plougastel,
Hotel Plougastel, Rue du Paradis. Is that it?"

"That is correct, monsieur," she answered, with what civility she could
muster before the fellow's affronting rudeness.

There was a long moment of silence, during which he studied certain
p