slaves yourselves—slaves to a little aristocrat with his grey coat and his three-cornered hat. No more citizens either, I am told, and nothing but monsieur and madame. My faith, some more heads will have to roll into the sawdust basket some of these mornings."
Duroc advanced in silence, and stood by the ruffian's side.
"Jean Carabin," said he.
The Baron started, and the film of drunkenness seemed to be clearing from his eyes.
"Jean Carabin," said Duroc, once more.
He sat up and grasped the arms of his chair.
"What do you mean by repeating that name, young man?" he asked.
"Jean Carabin, you are a man whom I have long wished to meet."
"Supposing that I once had such a name, how can it concern you, since you must have been a child when I bore it?"
"My name is Duroc."
"Not the son of?"
"The son of the man you murdered."
The Baron tried to laugh, but there was terror in his eyes.
"We must let bygones be bygones, young man," he cried. "It was our life or theirs in those days: the aristocrats or the people. Your father was of
