Every day I passed there in going between the room where I lodge and my business. It was an old shop, full of trash, ambitious of being a bric-À-brac establishment, but its contents had neither beauty nor pedigree to recommend them, only age and cheapness. Its doorsill lay even with the pavement, inviting custom by an easy access, while repelling it by its squalor. The light entered hesitatingly through a cobwebbed window, as if loath to touch the unsightly objects within. Of these, some few had strayed through the door and stood in blinking confusion on the sidewalk—chairs with three legs, desks with no shelves, sofas without seats, clocks eternally silent, and ornaments maimed, cracked, and seamed with glue.

It was in this company I first saw him. He had dark eyes with heavy lids, that gave a pathetic look to his face, and one eyebrow was slightly pointed near its termination on the temple, while the other was straight—an irregularity often found in persons of erratic temperament. His nose, sensitive and refined, was in beautiful proportion to the face: his full lips and square chin were partly concealed by a curling brown beard and moustache, and the hair, which met a forehead rather broad than high, was of the same color. Perhaps I should have mentioned that he was a portrait.

How had he arrived among his present surroundings, standing on the dirty street, smeared with mud that passing feet cast in his face, splashed by rain, and torn from contact with the edges of chairs or the careless canes of pedestrians—even showing the print of a boot-heel impressed on one cheek? At times he disappeared for days together, as if lost in the maze within: then again I would see his tragic eyes gazing at me through a pelting storm or his skin blistering under a blinding sun. Was it any wonder that I sought to save him from his capricious fate—that I pitied him, that I bought him?

I took the opportunity of doing so when the owner of the shop, whom I respectfully christened Sticks, was absent, and was thereby enabled to purchase the portrait from a shock-headed boy in charge for the modest sum of two francs.

My acquisition gave me much pleasure, but, unfortunately, it immediately became the subject of an altercation between my two selves. I must here say that my inner and outer self seldom agree, the latter being a practical man and a clerk in a retail lace business, while the former is an idealist who despises the other's employment and ridicules his opinions, frequently bewailing the lot that links him to a clod without aspirations.

It was to settle this dispute that I resolved, if possible, to discover some facts about the portrait's history, and for this purpose I stopped at the shop next morning, fortunately finding the shock-headed boy alone. Old Sticks would not have given even an answer, his business being buying and selling.

"Where did you get that picture I bought of you yesterday?" I began.

"Think it's an old master?" he asked with a wink.

"Will you answer my question, you blockhead?" I said, threatening him with my stick.

"I brought it from No. 42 Rue Notre Dame de Lorette," he whimpered, avoiding the cane as if it recalled disagreeable memories.

"To whom did it belong?"

"I don't know."

"Speak out, my man, and you shall have this for your reward." The proffered half-franc made him voluble.

"I was sent for it to No. 42. The concierge gave it to me. He had it carefully wrapped up: that made me laugh when I saw it opened."

"How long ago did this happen?"

"About six months. Where do you live?"

"What is that to you, my young friend?"

"You had better not pass here often: the old man is furious that I sold the picture—asked me all about how you looked, and if you ever passed the shop. I told him I never saw you before, and that you had black hair and squinted."

"Why did you say that?"

"I owe him one. He beat me last night, and went off this morning without giving me a bite to eat. Last thing he said was, 'You are sure he squints?' I said, 'Yes, sure.'"

Then, as I gave him the silver, the boy said, "Just mind the shop a moment, while I run and get something to eat;" and off he went, leaving me in charge.

"What are you going to do about it?" asked my inner self ironically.

"I am going to No. 42;" and without awaiting the boy's return I set out.

A few minutes brought me to the street. I passed No. 42 in review from the opposite side of the way, thinking I might get some idea of its occupants from the exterior. The house, wedged in by similar houses, possessed no particular physiognomy. I gazed at each window in turn, and finally crossing the street asked the concierge, "What is the name of the artist living in this house?"

"Only respectable people live here," he answered in a surly tone.

"When did he leave?" I went on, determined not to notice his rudeness.

"There has never been one here since I came."

"How long have you been here?"

"I can't remember."

"But you can remember a picture that you sold to a furniture-dealer in the Rue St. Lazare about six months ago."

"No I can't. I never sold one."

"His boy told me he got it from you."

"He is mistaken: I never sold one."

"Perhaps it merely passed through your hands. No harm will come to you if you tell me what you know about it."

"I know nothing," he exclaimed angrily, and began to pick up some scraps on the floor, so that I could not see his face.

Evidently suspecting there was something wrong, and that he might be held accountable, the man was prepared to deny everything, and my time being limited I left. As I did so I saw a plainly-dressed individual approach him, and on once looking back I thought from their gestures they were speaking of me. Of course my inner self exclaimed, "Absurd!"

For two days after I was confined to my room by a slight illness, but on the third, as I neared the furniture-shop, I noticed Sticks disconsolately seated in what might be called his best chair, seeing that the cover, though faded, was whole, and it lacked but one arm. This total disregard for the sanctity of his wares struck me as ominous, but confident, from the boy's description of me, that I should not be recognized, I went boldly forward. What was my astonishment to see him as I passed start from his seat and exclaim, "Is it you?"

"The boy has betrayed us," said I to my inner self.

"Perhaps he was bribed by another half-franc," replied he, as if sneering at my liberality.

"Let us see what old Sticks will do," I remarked in order to change the subject.

Thereupon we stopped before the excited man, who was trying vainly to calm himself while he asked nervously, "Can I show monsieur something? Something cheap, cheap—a bargain, artistic, grand, beautiful."

"Not this morning, thanks."

"Ah, this is not kind. Enter a moment: the opportunity is there; do not disappoint it."

He stood before me, and laying one knotty hand on my sleeve gently pushed me over the threshold, while he murmured, "A bargain, beautiful, cheap." Mephistopheles could not have looked more persuasive as, pointing his other hand—which matched his wares by the loss of a finger—to a worm-eaten cabinet, he leered at me with the only eye he had left.

"I could not carry it," I said with a shrug.

"I will send the article," he answered, eagerly pulling a soiled bit of paper and the end of a pencil from his pocket. "What is monsieur's address?"

"He is anxious to know where I live: that is evident," said I to my usual confidant as I moved on and stopped before a table which had once been inlaid, but which now presented the appearance of a painted beauty whose rouge has dropped off.

"Monsieur's choice is wise," said the merchant, following me. "Real Louis Quatorze: and besides its beauty it has a secret drawer to recommend it. That, however, I can only show you in the privacy of your own apartment."

"I think he wants to steal the portrait," I remarked to the invisible presence accompanying me. Then I asked the dealer, watching him closely the while, "Have you any pictures to sell?"

Sticks coughed nervously, looked about him, and walked the whole length of his shop, dusting the things with his red cap, before he spoke. He must have been much preoccupied thus rashly to destroy the venerable appearance of his stock. Then he said, "Perhaps you might have one you would sell?"

"I suppose you mean the one I bought of you. Why do you want it? In what does its value lie? What is the secret connected with it?"

The old man could not repress an involuntary "Hush!" Then recovering himself, he asked, "Will you sell it? I offer double what you gave."

I shook my head negatively.

"Name your price," he begged eagerly.

I obstinately continued to shake my head. There must be some reason for his wanting it back, and I resolved to find this out before I parted with it. Thereupon my inner self ejaculated "Nonsense!" but the dealer's anxiety was too evident, and his liberality too unusual, not to be suspicious.

"I must bid you good-morning," I said, in order to bring the matter to a crisis.

"Stay a moment: I will explain, I will tell you all. A poor widow sold me the picture: it was a portrait of the husband of her youth. Yesterday she came to buy it back: she had saved the money for this purpose sou by sou. Monsieur will not be cruel, and I promise to divide the profits equally with him."

"I can name my price?" I asked, stopping at the door.

"Certainly, monsieur."

"Tell the poor widow she had better spend her savings in buying a new husband instead of an old portrait. You can mention me as a pretender." With that I walked off, believing that I could come sooner to the truth by feigning indifference.

Several times during the day I imagined some one was watching me, and returning home at night I was sure I was followed; which proved to be true, as on reaching my door the shock-headed boy from the shop passed and whispered, "Be careful! They are on your track;" then disappeared before I could ask an explanation.

"I wonder if Sticks meditates a night-attack, and has sent the boy to reconnoitre?" said I to my confidential friend.

"You had better bribe him to tell you," replied this ironical adviser.

But nothing happened until morning, when a woman, the concierge of the house I live in, knocked at the door and asked if it would be convenient for me to pay my rent that day: it would oblige the proprietor. This was an unusual request, the rent not being due for a week to come; but I counted out the necessary sum, and handing it to her went on with my preparations to go out. Still she remained, and when I turned to see what detained her, I saw her eyes fixed on the portrait.

"It is so like my son," she said, observing my regard. "Monsieur has not had it long?"

"No, a few days only."

"My poor son was killed," she continued, wiping her eyes: "he was a mason and fell from a scaffolding. If he had only been contented to be a street-paver, as I begged him, he would never have fallen."

"Blessed are the lowly-minded, for being already down they cannot fall!" This voiceless remark I made to my other self as a warning.

"It is such a broken-up portrait that monsieur cannot want it. I would like to buy it for a little sum if monsieur would sell it. My poor son! That hole in the forehead especially looks like Jean when I saw him last." Here she covered her eyes.

"How much did that one-eyed man give you to come and buy that portrait?" asked I, guessing that this was an envoy of Sticks.

"He?" she said, confused: "it was no he." Then recovering herself: "Monsieur is mistaken if he thinks I would take a bribe;" after which the lady withdrew.

"Was not my question well thought of?" asked I of my other self in triumph.

"I think you are becoming a monomaniac," was his complimentary reply.

The day passed uneventfully, although I still had a suspicion that I was watched, but I had no means of making it a certainty. When I returned home my first look was toward the portrait. It was still safe.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and found there my washerwoman, or I should say my washerwoman's substitute, one whom I had never before seen. She was a bright, talkative little thing, a pearl of soapsuds, and said glibly that my usual attendant was ill, and she had come instead. I told her I was glad she had.

While putting down her basket her brown eyes took in the whole of my room, and she remarked with a shiver, "What a sad home you live in!—gloomy, ugly little chamber."

"Does your young man have a better one, my dear?"

"You are not my confessor," she answered saucily.

"I wish I were."

"Let me be yours."

"No objections."

"Who is the joli garÇon you condemn to share with you this gloomy apartment?" She pointed to the portrait.

"A dear friend of mine."

"He looks as if he drank absinthe, and had broken his head on the pavement; nevertheless, I like him. Bring him to see me."

"Willingly: when shall we call?"

"As soon as possible: meanwhile I will carry this with me." She lightly jumped on a chair, took my portrait and retreated with it to the door, saying, "Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, No. 42, to-morrow."

"Not so fast, please," said I, taking the canvas from her hand.

"Stingy fellow! you might let me have it. He would be so much surprised when you brought him chez moi to see it hanging on the wall. Give it to me;" and she held out her hand with a charming gesture.

"No, no, my dear: you may come and see it here whenever you like, but here it must remain."

I turned and hung it on its accustomed nail: when I looked again she was gone. Not even the sound of her foot on the stairs nor a moving shadow on the steps when I looked over the balustrade.

"Either the world is going mad, or I am," I exclaimed.

"You need not be in doubt which."

"Any one would think it odd. Could she be the forlorn widow in search of the portrait of the husband of her youth?"

"No."

"Does old Sticks look as if he could play a practical joke?"

"No."

"Or my concierge?"

"No."

"Or my washerwoman?"

"No."

"And this radiant little bubble of soapsuds who was just here, what do you think of her?"

But my other self, having nothing more to say, was sensible enough to keep silent, and we slept.

In dreams the pretty washerwoman and the portrait became mixed inextricably. I believed she looked like the portrait—that she was the portrait; and when I awoke in the morning and saw the melancholy eyes hanging opposite my bed, I could not help exclaiming, "Pardi! she does look like him! It is true her eyes are brighter and her dimpled chin rounder; otherwise the faces are the same. And did she not invite me to the house from which the portrait had been brought? I must see her again—the sooner the better." With this I arose and hurriedly dressed, my other self protesting against my resolution the while; but as the physical power is all on my side, he was obliged to accompany me.

We went to No. 42 Notre Dame de Lorette, and were met by the same disagreeable concierge that we had seen before. To my questions he answered that no washerwoman lived in the house, and when I insisted he exclaimed pathetically, "For Heaven's sake go away! I have a wife and six children."

I was so impressed by this startling information that I ejaculated, "What a philanthropist!" whilst my inner self, who luckily has not the gift of speech, said, "What a fool!" Then I remembered that asking after a washerwoman in Paris without knowing her name was rather quixotic, and I went my way.

During the day I still had the disagreeable sensation of being watched. Men appeared to be noticing me from alleys, street-corners and windows, and once I made a sale to an individual who I was sure observed me more than the lace he was purchasing. When I passed the shop in the evening, Sticks neither looked at me nor returned my salutation, and when I half stopped to examine a new piece of dilapidation on the sidewalk he whispered abruptly, "Move on, I beg of you: your custom is not wanted here."

Was it strange that a series of the wildest conjectures should fill my mind? It was just before the Franco-German war, when the whole of Paris was in a fever of excitement and every event seemed to predict a political crisis. But in what manner could I, a simple lace-selling clerk, be connected with it? This last reflection of course emanated from my plain-talking self, who would rather believe the whole world mad than that anything important should happen to me. I was "not made of the stuff that distinction loves," he said, and begged me not to think that the eyes of the Empire were upon me.

As I entered the house I tried to question my concierge about the pretty girl who had brought home my clothes, but found my efforts useless. The woman said she knew nothing of my washerwoman, not even her name. I tried by describing the girl to get a more definite answer. She intimated that she would have little to do if she looked at every one going up or down the stairs; then burst into tears, and begged me to leave her—that she was dependent on her place for support; that her reputation was all she had; and more to the same effect, which I avoided by making a precipitate retreat.

I rushed to my room and to my glass, eagerly scanning the reflection therein to see if any change in my appearance within the last few days could cause people thus to avoid me, suspect me, and treat me as if contaminated. It was the same insignificant face I had known from childhood, with what my other self called a "stupidly innocent expression." I next thought of examining the portrait, taking it from the wall for this purpose. It was certainly modern: the slightest acquaintance with art settled this beyond doubt. (I must here acknowledge that my second self is rather a cultivated man; his discrimination has often been praised by the members of our firm; and it is owing to his delicate taste that I have been sent several times to Belgium to make large purchases of lace for our house; therefore I could rely on his judgment in this matter.) But might it not conceal another? I held it between me and the light, and could see through it, not only where there were holes, but everywhere between the interstices of the thinly-painted, badly-made canvas. I turned the back: there was nothing but the name of the seller stamped upon it: it was not likely he would remember who had bought this particular article. There was no frame, and I detached the cloth from the stretcher, that nothing might escape me. Not the slightest clew—no bit of paper, message or token. I put back the tacks, and was hanging my unsolved puzzle on the wall when I heard a knock at the door.

This time it was my bonÂ-fide washerwoman, who came for the soiled clothes the other in her hasty retreat had forgotten, and as she gathered them together I carelessly asked after the fair unknown.

"She is my niece," was the reply.

"Does she live with you?"

"No: she lives in the country."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"What is her name?"

"I don't know."

By this time the dame ended her task by tying the clothes in a bundle, and seemed in haste to be off.

"Is it not rather strange that you should know neither your niece's name nor where she lives?"

"I don't care," she said, defiantly resting a hand on either hip: "I will have nothing more to do with it." Here the bundle at her feet received a kick which sent it spinning over the floor, and she would have left the room had I not stood in her way.

"Why did you begin it?" I asked quickly, seeing here a chance of solving the mystery.

"She would take no refusal; and besides, she gave me twenty francs."

"What for?"

"Merely to allow her to carry home your wash. I hope you found nothing missing?"

"Nothing. But listen: I will give you another twenty francs if you tell me all you know about her."

"Make it thirty," she said eagerly.

"It shall be thirty."

"The young girl—"

"The brown-eyed one who brought my wash?"

"Yes. She came to my house on Friday last. Madame Trois, your concierge, had given her my address. The girl said she must see you in your room, and must have an excuse for going there—all for a bit of fun. But Madame Trois told me to-day that it was a picture she wanted, for she gave her fifty francs the day before for trying to get it, and promised her as much more as it might cost if you should consent to sell it. When Madame Trois failed, the girl asked what other woman went to your room, and she sent her to me."

"Then she is no niece of yours?"

"If I had a niece she would not be running about alone in that way; but the girl said if you should question me I must tell you she is my niece, and give her any name I pleased. As if I did not have enough trouble naming my own children without puzzling over one for her! especially when she gave me but twenty francs, and Madame Trois throwing it in my teeth that she got fifty! I am even with her now;" and she held out her hand for the money with the pose of a malignant Victory.

"Is that all?"

"All about her, but Madame Trois says there is something wrong, for the house is watched by the police."

"Police!"

"Yes. Madame Trois is up to their tricks. Her husband that is dead was a policeman, and she says those that don't dress in uniform are the worst."

"Madame Trois says a great deal; for instance, she told me she knew nothing about the girl, nor of you either, not even your name," I remarked.

"She was paid enough not to tell; besides, she is dreadfully afraid of the police; and no wonder. Such a dance as her husband led her! though I must say she deserved it. We have been friends for years."

I saw there was nothing more to gain, so I paid the woman and dismissed her, while my two selves both talked at once, making a distracting duet that nearly set me wild.

Here was confirmation of my worst fears. I was under suspicion, for what cause I knew not, but the picture must be in some way connected with it. Had the portrait been stolen, and did its possession implicate me in the theft? Yet who would care to recover so worthless a thing? Should I destroy it and thus end the ravel? No, if innocent why should I fear? and was not this the only connecting link between me and the brown-eyed girl who strangely resembled it?

"Come what will, the picture shall be preserved," I exclaimed finally.

Nevertheless, my night was restless, and the day following it more so. I went about my business distraught, mixing the distinctions between AlenÇon and Chantilly, and not having even the poor satisfaction of quarrelling with my confidant, who now kept up a moody silence. I was glad when evening came that I might be free to think, but evening brought a new complication.

On entering the Rue St. Lazare, I saw a person who in the shadow of a porte-cochÈre appeared to await me. As I passed him he leaned forward and placed in my hand a packet wrapped and rewrapped with twine, whispering, "For the cause." Then I recognized the shock-headed boy from the furniture-shop. I was too much surprised at this to notice, as I should otherwise have done, two men who at this moment seemed to start from the darkness and keep near me until I reached my door. There they seized me by the arms, and before I could think of resistance had placed me in a cab standing in readiness.

We drove very quietly along the street until we stopped at what I found to be the police head-quarters. I omitted to say that one of my captors had grasped my hand holding the packet when he first seized me. This man never relaxed his grasp during our ride, nor while descending from the cab, nor while we threaded a long corridor leading to an antechamber; and when we finally stood before a person who appeared to be high in authority he still retained my hand. Thus I had no chance of getting rid of what I feared might be my ruin.

"Confront the prisoner," ordered the high personage briefly.

"I am here," replied one of my captors, whom I now recognized as the same individual to whom I had sold lace two days before.

"What is your charge?"

"This man is suspected of being connected with a secret society the principles of which are inimical to the Empire."

"Have you any proofs?"

"I saw him receive a secret communication to-night: it is here." With this he raised my hand.

"Stand forward."

I moved toward the light, while the officer unclosed my fingers, to which I offered no resistance. There lay the packet enclosed with its many cords.

"What does it contain?" asked the great man.

"I have not ventured to touch it," answered he at my right obsequiously.

"Cut the cords."

This was done amid profound silence: my anxiety may be imagined as I awaited the result. There was as much wrapping-paper as string, and when the last fold had been carefully undone it revealed—two large sous. I breathed more freely.

There was a pause of blank amazement on the part of the officials, a whispered conference, and the paper was held to the light, heated by the fire, and examined with a glass, without result. The sous were handled in the same manner, and finally their date and description were written in a book; after which came an order in the same quiet tone that had been used before: "Search the prisoner."

In five minutes more all the clothing upon me had been cut into shreds and minutely examined: even my hat did not escape, and my watch was opened. Of course nothing was found, but that did not alter the fact that my best suit of clothes was a heap of ruins. My pocket-book was turned inside out, and my passport, that I always carry with me, it being often necessary to start on my employers' business at a moment's notice, received a great deal of attention. At last other clothes nearly identical with those I had lost were handed me, and when I donned them I was given a hat; my pocket-book, passport and watch were returned; and the conductor of ceremonies begged my pardon for the slight (he called it slight) trouble he had occasioned me, said he found the suspicions of my accuser unfounded, and ordered him to "conduct the gentleman to his residence;" which was accordingly done.

When there, I could neither read nor sleep, and to escape the tormenting round of questions and answers that brought no solution to the mystery surrounding me, I resolved to spend the evening at the theatre. I went to the FranÇais. It was useless: the dialogue unremittingly kept up between my two selves prevented my hearing that on the stage.

My eyes were wandering in dreamy abstraction over the mass of faces partly turned toward me during the entr'acte, when I was suddenly roused to full consciousness by recognizing in one of them the features of my portrait. The man was regarding me as if waiting to catch my eye: when he saw by my start of surprise that he had succeeded, he made a movement with his lips and turned away. In a moment he was lost in the crowd.

My inner self, who always doubts the evidence of the senses, suggested that it was a mistake. "Would this person, even were he the original of the portrait, know you or make you a sign?" said he, adding thereto other arguments, which, though I emphatically disbelieved, I was too agitated to contradict.

I tried to remain during the second act, hoping to verify my first impression, but after twisting my neck in order to look behind, and straining my eyes in front, receiving angry glances and "'Sh! 'sh!" from my neighbors, annoyed by these movements, I concluded to leave.

Close to the Fountain MoliÈre I thought I heard footsteps following me: there was one pair besides my own in the street. I listened to them for some time, and finally they seemed to regulate themselves with mine.

"'Tis the police!" I confided to my other self.

"Always fearful," was his reply.

"You can be very cool: you have no neck in danger."

"I am happy to say my ideas need not be influenced by such paltry considerations. In fact, you are a coward!"

"You are a fool!" I returned.

At this desperate juncture the quarrel fortunately ended by its object coming nearer and in a deep musical voice saying, "Good-evening, friend."

"Good-evening," I answered gruffly.

"You don't appear to know me."

He took a shabby cap from his head and turned his face: a chill ran through me when in the dim street-light I recognized my portrait, moving, speaking, living. A black patch above the brow made me wonder if the wound it concealed passed through the head, as did that in the picture, and his eyes were more brilliant and eager than the painted ones, with their pathetic look changed to one of defiance, as if a devil had taken possession of those beautiful features. For a moment superstition kept me silent, then I said briefly, "I don't know you."

"Allow me to introduce myself—Favart the International. You are delighted to make my acquaintance, no doubt. Calm your transports: time does not admit of them. We start for Belgium to-night."

"Who start?" I asked, now thinking the man a maniac.

"I, you, all of us."

"I am none of you."

"But you are suspected of being, which is worse, much worse. Hold! I will sketch your position accurately. Let us enter this cabaret: it is kept by one of us." I followed him mechanically, and when we were seated in a dark corner, with some wine he called for before us, he continued: "I divide the sketch into three heads, historical, personal and political. There is a theory called Socialism—a people called Socialists, or Chartists, or Communists: they have different names in different countries. You may have heard of them in the past: you shall hear more of them in the future. They have a good organization and magnificent sympathies."

"But you called yourself an International."

"Just so. Socialism is the idea, Internationalism is its result. And now the historic is mingled with the personal. This society was lately meditating a coup: it was necessary to have meetings, and we had to devise a signal for rallying. I submitted one to the committee, which was unanimously adopted as simple yet efficient. My portrait—I was not then sufficiently known to make it suspicious—was to stand outside the door of the shop where you found it on the days when a meeting would be held. The old furniture-dealer is one of us: so is the concierge of No. 42 Notre Dame de Lorette. About a week ago the former came to me in distress, saying the portrait had been sold in his absence: he did not even know to whom. I told him it must be recovered at all hazards, as it would cause great inconvenience and loss of time to fix on another signal. The next day you were supposed to have it through the inquiries you made at No. 42, where you frightened the concierge nearly out of his wits, he taking you for a spy. He immediately informed his friend the furniture-dealer that the police were on our track, and when told of the sale of the picture said you must have it. However, they did not dare bring mere conjectures to me: they watched and waited. On the third day after you passed the shop: the dealer knew you through the concierge's description, inveigled you in, and easily obtained the information he wanted about the picture, but failed to gain possession of it. Then Sidonia took the matter in hand—Sidonia always helps us out of a difficulty—but her attempts also failed, though she discovered not only that you were no spy, but that you were yourself under suspicion. The police were following us closely: they had found out the use we made of the portrait, which rendered its recovery profitless to us. I resolved to drop both you and it. Shortly after I perceived that it would be necessary for us to leave the city, and you being implicated, Sidonia insisted on my warning you before we went, though, as you do not belong to us, I could see no use in it."

"So, then, it was not the dealer's boy who informed on me?"

"No: he gave a description calculated to mislead. I believe he has by listening gained some half truths, and thinks you are an International: it was for that cause he gave you the packet which brought you into trouble this evening. Ha! ha! ha!"

"How do you know I have been in trouble?"

"Through one of our spies in the police service: he was present at your examination, and was detailed to watch you to-night. He told me of your being at the theatre; hence my opportunity of speaking to you. I can say no more: the political part of my sketch you have had a specimen of at the police-station to-night; if you stay you are likely to see more. Believe me, they only liberated you so politely in order, by watching you, to find your companions. To-morrow, after we are gone, there will be discoveries made through this same agent of ours in their employ. As they are already on our track, we take this method to gain their confidence for our man. If you fancy another examination by the police, remain."

"But I am innocent!"

"Unfortunately, you are. You know absolutely nothing with which to buy your liberty. What I have told you will be of no service: it will be already theirs. If you wish to go to Belgium ask at No. 33 Rue Lafitte for a travelling suit: you will receive one like mine."

He looked down at his heavy shoes, soiled overalls and tattered blouse, then touching the latter with his fingers, continued: "I use it now for a disguise, but the day will come when this blouse will be our standard—the laborer shall possess the earth. He who works shall live, and idleness, with the riches that foster it, will end. Necessities shall be plenty and luxuries unattainable. Palaces shall fall to give material for poor men's dwellings; monuments that glorify one man at the expense of his brothers must disappear; and churches, promises of another world, can no longer trick us out of our share, our birthright, in this. Paris will arise a new and better Sparta. Sparta, great mother of communes! I salute you! Leonidas! Favart aspires to eclipse your glory! Not for one nation does he labor, but for humanity—for the workers of the world, whose rightful dues are filched from them by the drones. Nature resents this wrong: the drones must die."

He had risen as he pronounced these words, low but rapidly: a moment he stood before me, his face glowing, his hand clenched, then his expression rapidly changed, and he said briefly, "It is a time for action, not for words. Good-night!"

A conflagration, an electric spark, was this shabby man, and I could easily believe what I afterward heard of his influence with the people.

He left me with my mind more perplexed than ever. What had been the coup these people were meditating, in which I, in the eyes of the police, was implicated? Murder? Treason? Arson? Nothing was beyond them with their magnificent sympathies. Perhaps this might be my only chance of escape; yet in doing so did I not cast my lot with theirs? should I not make myself doubly suspected? Embarrassing questions, to which neither self was ready with an answer. There was the prospect, too, of losing my situation if I remained long away, but in opposition to this practical consideration was the remembrance of my air-bath and the doubt about my future if I remained. In this chaos of thought can you guess what decided me? It was Favart's words: "We are all going." Did not we include her whom he called Sidonia, who had visited my room and had insisted I should be warned? Yes.

Not in disguise: I was in no humor to complicate the situation. Having my passport in my pocket, and knowing the policeman who was watching me would not prevent my flight, I simply walked to the station and took a first-class ticket to Brussels. First class, for I knew the man in the blouse must travel third, and I was anxious to be as far from him as possible.

I reached the frontier in safety. My examination ended, the officer turned to my only travelling companion, a lady who up to this time appeared to have been sleeping. As he threw the light of his lantern into her face I also looked at her. Good Heavens! could I be mistaken? The hair, it is true, was blond, and the dress a robe of deep mourning, but the eyes were the eyes of my portrait, the eyes of Favart, the eyes of my pretty washerwoman—Sidonia! The ordeal passed, the door shut, the train moved on.

"Have I your permission to speak, mademoiselle?" I asked in an agitated voice.

"If you wish, monsieur." She turned toward me a sad, tear-stained face that well suited her mourning.

"You are suffering: you have been weeping. Has anything occurred? Why this dress?"

"Nothing has occurred yet," she answered, trying to smile. "The danger for my brother is over once more. This dress is simply a disguise. God grant I may not soon be wearing it in token of sorrow!"

"Is Favart your brother?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes, my only one. I cannot bear to lose him. And you too have become implicated: it seemed as if Fate led you on."

I did not dare tell her how I felt that any fate was blessed that brought me to know her, to see her again. The thrill I experienced at this unexpected meeting revealed to me the strength of my feelings.

"In a few days I think matters will be arranged so that you can return to Paris," she went on, "but I thought it best for you to be absent at first. I hope it will not put you to inconvenience. What do you do?"

I told her my employment, not without wishing it was higher, but she said sweetly, "I am glad you are a working-man: your hands are so white I feared you were an idler."

"You endorse your brother's principles, mademoiselle? You too are a Socialist?"

"I honor labor—any and all kinds of labor. They say they admire it, but do they work? Ah no! Once my Charles was different. We come of laboring people. Our father owned a few fields, which we cultivated ourselves. I kept the dairy and assisted in harvest and at the vintage. Those were happy days. The good curÉ taught us to read and write, and lent my brother books, but Charles has forgotten his kindness. He was discontented even then, and would throw stones at the park-wall that surrounded the chÂteau near our property, and scowl at the little marquises as they passed us on horseback when we were afoot."

"How did you come to Paris?" I asked, seeing that in her present state of excitement speaking relieved her.

"Our parents died: my brother had a taste for painting, and wished to go to Paris and study. Monsieur le curÉ had given him some lessons and was proud of his talent: he counselled me to accompany Charles, and came with us to get me a place in a shop and recommend Charles to an artist of his acquaintance; and yet Charles says the curÉs are not our friends! The rent of our fields, with what I received, supported us. We had two little rooms and lived together, Charles and I. He made such rapid progress! The portrait you bought he painted at my request in the evening, while I sewed beside him. We were so happy. O mon Dieu! why could it not have lasted?"

She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears, but only for a moment: before I could think what to say to comfort her she was again speaking: "I do not often weep, but this dress depresses me: it is ill-omened."

"Do not think so: you are tired, over-wrought, to-night. The danger is past, and maybe you can persuade your brother to return to his art, and happier days will come."

"Impossible! When he first joined the society I tried in vain. Now he belongs to it heart and soul. He has set an example of communism by selling our land and giving the proceeds to the cause, and he now lives on contributions, which he is not ashamed to take, because he believes that what the earth produces is common to all, and he only receives his rightful share."

"But you also belong—is it not so?"

"When I found he would not return I followed: we could not be separated."

"And you share all his danger?"

"All," she answered firmly. "Danger shared is lessened, you know. Where he is, I am. But I wished to speak of your affairs. I forgot myself: sorrow is selfish. You must write to your employers and give some explanation of your absence: in a week at furthest I trust you will be able to return without annoyance. I will see that information which will exculpate you is given to the authorities. And, as far as my brother and myself are concerned, I know from your face I can trust you."

I would sooner have had my homely features at that moment than those of Apollo. When I arrived in Brussels I wrote to my employers, as she requested, but after excusing my sudden departure I begged them to recommend me to some firm in that city, for I resolved not to leave until I had offered Sidonia the protection of a husband. The answer to my letter was most favorable. I had the pleasure of showing it to Sidonia and telling her my plans, from which she tried to dissuade me with all the eloquence in her power.

"We are dangerous acquaintance, dangerous friends and dangerous enemies. The sooner we fade from your life the better," she said; but I would not listen.

The happiest month of my life I spent in Brussels. I found employment: I saw Sidonia every day, and if possible admired her hourly more. She had a quick judgment, born of the experience she had gained through the part she took in her brother's affairs. She knew whom to trust, and I am happy to say she trusted me; but, though frank, I never again saw the manner she had adopted when she came to my room: inclining naturally to be gay, she was always dignified. Once I ventured to apologize for the way I had spoken to her during that visit.

"My behavior gave rise to it," she answered. "I was obliged to act a part. But you gentlemen should have more respect for those poor girls whose daily wants often expose them to insult."

"After a man loves one good woman he learns to respect all women for her sake. You have taught me that lesson."

She taught me much more, my wise, my sensible Sidonia. With the example of her busy hands and the advocacy of her sweet lips my second self was brought to recognize the beauty and nobility of honest toil. Favart's life afforded an illustration of how the most exalted opinions can lead a man astray; and he humbly confessed that had my course been modelled according to his views, I should not now be able to offer Sidonia a home, which he heartily approved of my doing. I in turn acknowledged that I owed much in the estimation of my darling to his cultivation. I saw that she respected his acquirements, and that his longest conversations were agreeable to her; while had I been left with only the merits of lace to expatiate upon I should have failed to please.

But with my love my fears for her increased. Favart was seldom at home—now in England, now in Germany, now in Italy. What new scheme was he meditating? what new danger was he recklessly preparing for his sister? Tormented by misgivings, I resolved to make an effort to turn him from his course, and, failing in that, to gain his consent to a speedy marriage between me and Sidonia. Knowing his egotism, I approached him with a compliment: "Sidonia tells me you are the painter of the portrait that brought me into trouble: from its merit I should venture to predict great things of your future."

"Your prediction is likely to be fulfilled, but my fame will rest on something more profitable to humanity than painting."

"Do you never intend to paint again?" I ventured.

"Never: my time is employed in nobler work."

"Do you ever think of the danger you incur? do you ever count the suffering to others you may cause in attaining your object?"

"I think of success!" As he said these words the devil in his eyes flashed a triumphant glance, and I noticed for the first time the change for the worse that a few weeks had made in him. His face was haggard, his movements were restless: a life of constant excitement was telling on mind and body.

"And your sister?"

"She is worthy of me. With a mind fertile in resources she has an undaunted courage: we could not do without her. Twice she has saved my life, and once her address turned away the police from a meeting where there would have been at least twenty of our leading men arrested had they found us."

"And you never think of the danger she is exposed to? You never realize what an improper, what a cruel position it is in which to place a young and beautiful girl—you who are her natural protector? Listen to me, I beseech you: leave this life before it is too late; spare yourself, spare her; return to the ambition that made you happy before this frenzy seized you. I know now of some lace designs you could get to make: it would be a beginning, and—"

"Lace designs!" he interrupted, contemptuously. "He seeks to bind a man's ambition with lace! he would stifle the breath of purpose with lace! he would swaddle a sublime project in lace, until it is as weak as his own courage, as petty as his own soul! The noble idea!"

"I suppose it is nobler to live on contributions," I answered hotly.

"I take but my own. Nature provides enough for all if we behave as children of one parent and divide her bounty."

"Live as you please, run what risks you like, but spare your sister."

"That is, give her to you," he sneered.

"Yes, give her to me. I love her: my ambition will be to protect her. I ask for none better. And surely if you are not utterly selfish, when in peril you will be glad to know of her safety. Give her to me."

"Never! never! never! I waste time in talking to you. Your understanding is less even than I thought, but if Sidonia likes to have a tame cat about to amuse her leisure, I have no objections. As for a marriage with you, neither she nor I would think of it." So saying, with his usual abrupt manner he left me.

I made a passionate appeal to Sidonia. "Be my wife and leave the Internationals," I said. "What is the use of your sacrificing yourself for principles in which you do not believe? It is true, I can only offer you safety and love."

"Safety?" she repeated sadly. "Could it include my brother I would ask Heaven for no other blessing."

I begged, I pleaded, I argued, but to all she answered, "Who will save him if I am absent?"

I was obliged to wait and hope.

Now came the war, when disaster followed disaster until the Germans had completed the investment of Paris: then she begged me to go.

"Your country needs you: join the army of the Loire and do what you can to help it. You have been with us too long: already it would be difficult to make people believe that you do not belong to us. But if you serve suspicion will be averted. For my sake, go!"

"For your sake I stay."

"You are mistaken: if I need your protection you will be in a better position to give it by going than by staying."

"If you need my protection, will you let me give it?"

"I will."

"The protection of my name, the protection of a husband?"

"Yes, the protection of a husband."

It was an invention of her goodness, my darling! Knowing the monstrous plot the Socialists were meditating, she wished me to be absent. And I went, regretting only our present separation and fearing nothing for the future.

I was defeated with Motterouge, and afterward fought with D'Aurelle and Chanzy until hostilities ceased. On the third of March Paris was evacuated by the Germans, and fifteen days after followed the revolt of the Commune. Heaven only knows how I suffered during that time. I would have given my life to know she was safe: I would have risked it by deserting could I have hoped to find and protect her. But had she not said, "Where he is, I am"? and would not Favart be in the thickest of the fight? Oh cruel necessity! My best chance of meeting her was at the point of the bayonet with the troops.

Fort ValÉrien was taken: we entered Paris, and like a living web encircled the insurgents. Step by step they retreated, step by step we followed: we could not miss the way; ruin and blood marked their path.

On the twenty-sixth of May but one barricade remained standing. I was in the front rank when the order was given to charge on it, and amid smoke and noise and the glare of burning buildings we obeyed. There I saw Favart: almost face to face we met. His eyes the color of blood and starting from his head, his nostrils distended, his face livid, his hair and moustache bristling with rage, his hoarse voice shouting commands, he stood indifferent to danger, fighting like a wild beast, furious as a madman. A moment, and then, a bullet entering his forehead, he fell, and a woman's shriek rang on the air.

Oh for the strength of a thousand men! oh for wings! oh for power! Might my whole life be contained in that moment could I but save her! Suddenly the street, the barricade, the houses on either side, trembled, heaved and leapt into the air. A tremendous explosion, with flame and debris, forced what remained of us to retreat—forced also the poor remnant of our enemy to surrender. A cordon was formed around the quarter, so that none escaped. Wounded, blackened, bleeding, torn, they crawled by, and she was among them, my darling, my angel—among those shameless women, those hardened men!

I could not save her, tried, convicted and sentenced at Versailles, my beautiful, innocent Sidonia. I wrote letters; my perseverance gained me admission to the highest authorities; I prayed, I wept, I pleaded, but the name of Favart closed every avenue to pity. The most active, the most cruel, the most merciless in the Commune, foremost in destruction, indefatigable in barbarity, her brother, the shadow of her life, was the cause of her death.

I heard the sentence pronounced, "Transportation for life:" it did not seem to move her. Wan, her once neat dress in disorder, a shadow of her former self, she sat immovable. Once I met her eye, but she did not recognize me: only when the wind accidentally blew back the torn sleeve from her white arm I saw a moment's consciousness, and she blushed as she replaced it. Haply, she was deaf to the cries of "PÉtroleuse!" and shouts of imprecation that met her as she was taken through the crowd; but what fearful suffering must that sensitive mind have endured before its faculties were thus benumbed!

I gained one slight concession: I was permitted to write one letter to her before she was sent away. I begged her not to lose hope that after the first excitement was over I might gain for her a commutation of the sentence—to have courage and trust me. I received no answer. I do not even know if her condition permitted her to receive one ray of comfort from my love: I only know she died. She never reached Cayenne. The transport-ship was her deathbed, and the ocean my martyr's grave.

But I cannot die. Memory, the portrait, and I live together—the portrait at once recalling the angel, the devil, the joy, the sorrow of my life. Yet let me not curse him: he was her brother, and she loved him. I would not vex my Sidonia in heaven.

Ita Aniol Prokop.