The merchant climbed to the top of the heap of cobblestones. Standing there, with one hand resting upon his gun, and waving a handkerchief with the other, he signalled to the approaching soldiers that he wished to speak to them.

The drums of the detachment ceased beating, rolled the order for silence, and all listened.

At one of the windows on the first floor of the merchant's house his wife and daughter stood partly concealed behind the blinds, which they had slightly opened. They stood side by side, holding their breath, pale, but calm and resolute. They did not remove their eyes from Lebrenn as he was addressing the soldiers with his son—who had closely followed his father up the barricade in order, if necessary, to cover him with his own body—standing beside him, gun in hand. George Duchene was about to join the two when he suddenly felt himself violently plucked back by his blouse.

He turned and saw Pradeline. She had been running fast, as the redness of her cheeks and short breath denoted.

The defenders of the barricade had seen the young girl approach; they were surprised to see her among them. As she sought to push her way through the crowd in order to reach George, they said to her:

"Don't stay here, young woman; it is too dangerous a place."

"You here!" cried George stupefied at the sight of Pradeline.

"George, listen to me!" the girl said to him imploringly. "I went twice to your house yesterday, and failed to find you at home. I wrote to you that I would call again this morning. To keep my appointment I had to cross several barricades, and—"

"Stand back!" cried George, alarmed for her safety. "You will be shot—this is no place for you."

"George, I have come to render you a service—I—"