the crush that nearly smothered him, the young man, with his head thrown
backward, once more exclaimed:

"Bread!"

"Hold on! here it is!" said Pere Roque, firing a shot from his gun.
There was a fearful howl--then, silence. At the side of the trough
something white could be seen lying.

After this, M. Roque returned to his abode, for he had a house in the
Rue Saint-Martin, which he used as a temporary residence; and the injury
done to the front of the building during the riots had in no slight
degree contributed to excite his rage. It seemed to him, when he next
saw it, that he had exaggerated the amount of damage done to it. His
recent act had a soothing effect on him, as if it indemnified him for
his loss.

It was his daughter herself who opened the door for him. She immediately
made the remark that she had felt uneasy at his excessively prolonged
absence. She was afraid that he had met with some misfortune--that he
had been wounded.

This manifestation of filial love softened Pere Roque. He was astonished
that she should have set out on a journey without Catherine.

"I sent her out on a message," was Louise's reply.

And she made enquiries about his health, about one thing or another;
then, with an air of indifference, she asked him whether he had chanced
to come across Frederick:

"No; I didn't see him!"

It was on his account alone that she had come up from the country.

Some one was walking at that moment in the lobby.

"Oh! excuse me----"

And she disappeared.

Catherine had not found Frederick. He had been several days away, and
his intimate friend, M. Deslauriers, was now living in the provinces.

Louise once more presented herself, shaking all over, without being able
to utter a word. She leaned against the furniture.

"What's the matter with you? Tell me--what's the matter with you?"
exclaimed her father.

She indicated by a wave of her hand that it was nothing, and with a
great effort of will she regained her composure.

The keeper of the restaurant at the opposite side of the street brought
them soup. But Pere Roque had passed through too exciting an ordeal to
be able to control his emotions. "He is not likely to die;" and at
dessert he had a sort of fainting fit. A doctor was at once sent for,
and he prescribed a potion. Then, when M. Roque was in bed, he asked to
be as well wrapped up as possible in order to bring on perspiration. He
gasped; he moaned.

"Thanks, my good Catherine