“Where are you going?” asked Denise, bluntly.
“Back to France. I have heard news that makes it necessary for me to return. Gambetta has escaped from Paris in a balloon, and is organizing affairs at Tours. We may yet make a defence.”
“You?” said Mademoiselle Brun. Into the one word she threw, or attempted to throw, a world of contempt, as she looked him up and down, with his arm in a sling, and his wounded leg bent awkwardly to one side; but her eyes glittered. This was a man after her own heart.
“One has one's head left, mademoiselle,” answered Lory. Then he turned to the window, and held up one hand. “Listen!” he added.
It was the music of a second regiment marching down the Boulevard du Palais, towards the port, and, as it approached, it was rendered almost inaudible by the shouts of the men themselves, and of the crowd that cheered them. De Vasselot went to the window and opened it, his face twitching, and his eyes shining with excitement.
“Listen to them,” he said. “Listen to them. Ah! but it is good to hear them.”
Instinctively the others followed him, and stood grouped in the open window, looking down into the street. The band was now passing, clanging out the Marseillaise, and the fickle people cheered the new tricolour, as it fluttered in the wind. Some one looked up, and perceived de Vasselot's uniform.
“Come, mon capitaine,” he cried; “you are coming with us?”
Lory laughed, and shouted back—“Yes—I am coming.”
“See,” cried a sergeant, who was gathering recruits as he went—“see! there is one who has fought, and is going to fight again! Vive la France, mes enfants! Who comes? Who comes?”