“There, now you are one of us—­where are we to go?”

That was the question.  His reviving hope and courage were suddenly damped by a horrible uncertainty.  Where were they to look for a shelter that gave promise of security? the troops were searching the houses, were shooting every Communist they took with arms in his hands.  And in addition to that, neither of them knew a soul in that portion of the city to whom they might apply for succor and refuge; not a place where they might hide their heads.

“The best thing to do would be to go home where I live,” said Maurice.  “The house is out of the way; no one will ever think of visiting it.  But it is in the Rue des Orties, on the other side of the river.”

Jean gave vent to a muttered oath in his irresolution and despair.

“Nom de Dieu! What are we to do?”

It was useless to think of attempting to pass the Pont Royal, which could not have been more brilliantly illuminated if the noonday sun had been shining on it.  At every moment shots were heard coming from either bank of the river.  Besides that, the blazing Tuileries lay directly in their path, and the Louvre, guarded and barricaded, would be an insurmountable obstacle.

“That ends it, then; there’s no way open,” said Jean, who had spent six months in Paris on his return from the Italian campaign.

An idea suddenly flashed across his brain.  There had formerly been a place a little below the Pont Royal where small boats were kept for hire; if the boats were there still they would make the venture.  The route was a long and dangerous one, but they had no choice, and, further, they must act with decision.

“See here, little one, we’re going to clear out from here; the locality isn’t healthy.  I’ll manufacture an excuse for my lieutenant; I’ll tell him the communards took me prisoner and I got away.”

Taking his unhurt arm he sustained him for the short distance they had to traverse along the Rue du Bac, where the tall houses on either hand were now ablaze from cellar to garret, like huge torches.  The burning cinders fell on them in showers, the heat was so intense that the hair on their head and face was singed, and when they came out on the quai they stood for a moment dazed and blinded by the terrific light of the conflagrations, rearing their tall crests heavenward, on either side the Seine.

“One wouldn’t need a candle to go to bed by here,” grumbled Jean, with whose plans the illumination promised to interfere.  And it was only when he had helped Maurice down the steps to the left and a little way down stream from the bridge that he felt somewhat easy in mind.  There was a clump of tall trees standing on the bank of the stream, whose shadow gave them a measure of security.  For near a quarter of an hour the dark forms moving to and fro on the opposite quai kept them in a fever of apprehension.  There was firing, a scream was heard, succeeded by a loud splash, and the bosom of the river was disturbed.  The bridge was evidently guarded.