"Will you come in a minute, my dear friend?"

Madam Lebrenn joined her husband, and the door of the rear room closed behind them. There a sad spectacle presented itself to the eyes of the merchant's wife.

Pradeline lay stretched out upon a sofa. The girl was in her death agony. George d.u.c.h.ene, with his arm in a sling, was on his knees beside her, urging her to take some of the wine and water in a cup that he held up to her lips.

At the sight of Madam Lebrenn, the poor creature endeavored to smile.

She gathered all the strength she could, and said in a faint and broken voice:

"Madam--I asked to see you--before I die--in order to tell you--the truth about George. I was an orphan; I worked at flower-making. I had suffered a good deal--underwent untold privations--but still I kept my character. I should also say, so as not to praise myself too highly, I had never been tempted," she added with a bitter sigh; and then she smiled: "I met George upon his return from the army--I fell in love with him--I loved him--Oh! I loved him dearly--let that pa.s.s--he was the only one--perhaps it was because he never became my lover. I am sure I loved him more than he loved me. He was better than I--it was out of kindness that he offered to marry me. Unfortunately, a girl friend crossed my way and led me astray. She had been a working girl, like myself--and misery had driven her to sell herself! I saw her rich, well dressed--well fed--she urged me to do as she had done--my head turned--I forgot George--but not for long--but for nothing in the world would I have dared to appear before him again. Occasionally, nevertheless, I would come to this street--seeking to catch a glimpse of him. I saw him more than once at work in your shop, madam--and talking to your daughter, who seemed to me very beautiful--Oh, as beautiful as the day!

A presentiment told me George was bound to fall in love with her. I watched him--more than once, recently, I saw him early in the morning at his window--looking across the street at yours. Yesterday morning I was with someone--"

A feeble blush of shame colored for an instant the pallid cheeks of the dying girl. She dropped her eyes, and presently proceeded in a voice that was fast sinking:

"There--accidentally--I learned that that person--found your daughter--very beautiful, and--knowing that that person is utterly--reckless of consequences--I feared for your daughter and for George--I tried--yesterday--to notify him--he was not at home; I wrote to him--asking to see him, without stating my reasons--This morning--I went out--without knowing--that there--were barricades--and--"

The young girl could not finish; her head fell back; mechanically she raised both her hands to the wound on her bosom, heaved a sigh of profound grief, and stammered a few unintelligible words. Monsieur and Madam Lebrenn wept in silence as they contemplated her.

"Josephine," said George, "do you suffer much?" And covering his eyes with his hands he added: "This mortal wound--was received by her in the attempt to save my life!"

"George--George," muttered the dying girl almost inaudibly, as her eyes roved aimlessly about, "George--you--do--not know--"

And she began to laugh.

That laugh of death was heartrending.

"Poor child! Come to your senses," pleaded Madam Lebrenn.

"My name is Pradeline," came deliriously from the wretched girl.

"Yes--because--I always sing."

"Unhappy child!" cried Lebrenn. "Poor girl, she is delirious!"

"George," she resumed, her mind wandering, "listen to my songs--"

And in an expiring voice she improvised to her favorite melody:

"I feel th'approach of death, I'm breathing my last breath-- It is my fate, and yet I grieve--to die--"

She did not complete the last line. Her arms twitched; her head drooped upon her shoulder. She was dead.

That instant, Gildas opened the door that communicated with a back staircase leading to the upper story, and said to the merchant:

"Monsieur, the colonel upstairs wishes to speak with you."

The merchant went up to his own bed chamber, where the colonel had been quartered as a measure of precaution.

The Count of Plouernel had received only two slight wounds, but was severely bruised. In order to facilitate the staunching of the blood he had taken off his uniform.

Lebrenn found his guest standing in the middle of the apartment, pale and somber.

"Monsieur," said he, "my wounds are not serious enough to prevent me from leaving the house. I shall never forget your generous conduct towards me. Your conduct was all the more n.o.ble in view of what transpired between us yesterday morning. My only wish is to be able some day to return your generosity. That, I suppose, will be difficult, monsieur, seeing my party is vanquished, and you are the vanquishers. I was blind with regard to the actual state of public sentiment. This sudden Revolution opens my eyes. I realize it--yes, the day of the people's triumph has come. We had our day, as you said to me yesterday, monsieur; your turn has come."

"I think so too, monsieur. But now, allow me to advise you. It would not be prudent for you to go out in uniform. The popular effervescence has not yet cooled down. I shall supply you with a coat and hat, and, in the company of one of my friends, you will be able to return to your own residence without any difficulty, or running any danger."

"Monsieur! You can not mean that! To disguise myself--that would be cowardice!"

"If you please, monsieur! No exaggerated scruples! Have you not the consciousness of having fought with intrepidity to the very end?"

"Yes; but of having been disarmed--by--"

But the Count of Plouernel checked himself, and offering his hand to the merchant said:

"Pardon me, monsieur--I forgot myself; besides, I am vanquished. It shall be as you say. I shall take your advice. I shall a.s.sume the disguise without feeling that I am committing an act of cowardice. A man whose conduct is as worthy as yours must be a good judge in matters of honor."

A minute later the Count of Plouernel was in bourgeois dress, thanks to the clothes that the merchant lent him.

The Count then pointed to his battered casque which lay on top of his uniform, that had been torn in several places during the struggle, and said to Monsieur Lebrenn:

"Monsieur, I request you to keep my casque, in default of my sword, which I would have preferred to leave with you as a souvenir from a soldier whose life you generously saved--as a token of grat.i.tude."

"I accept it, monsieur," answered the linendraper. "I shall join the casque to several other souvenirs which have come down to me from your family."

"From my family!" exclaimed the Count of Plouernel in amazement. "From my family! Do you know my family?"

"Alas, monsieur," answered the merchant in melancholy tones, "this was not the first time that, in the course of the centuries, a Neroweg of Plouernel and a Lebrenn met, arms in hand."

"What is that you say, monsieur?" asked the Count with increasing wonderment. "I pray you, explain yourself."

Two raps at the door interrupted the conversation of Monsieur Lebrenn and his guest.

"Who is there?" demanded the merchant.

"I, father."

"Walk in, my boy!"

"Father," said Sacrovir in great glee, "several friends are downstairs.

They come from the City Hall. They want to see you."

"My boy," said Monsieur Lebrenn, "you are known as well as myself in the street. I wish you to escort our guest home. Take the back stairs in order to avoid going out by the shop door. Do not leave Monsieur Plouernel until he is safe at home."

"Rest a.s.sured, father. I have already crossed the barricade twice. I answer for monsieur's safety."

"Excuse me, monsieur, if I now leave you," said the merchant to the Count of Plouernel. "My friends are waiting for me."

"Adieu, monsieur," answered the Count in a voice that came from the heart. "I do not know what the future has in store for us; mayhap we may meet again in opposite camps; but I swear to you, I shall not, henceforth, be able to look upon you as an enemy."

With these words the Count of Plouernel followed the merchant's son.