But at Lille the danger was great.  The gendarmes went from carriage to carriage; entered them lantern in hand, and compared the written descriptions of the travellers with their personal appearance.  Several who appeared to be suspicious characters were arrested, and were immediately thrown into prison.  Edgar Quinet, seated by the side of Madame Cantacuzene awaited the turn of his carriage.  At length it came.  Madame Cantacuzene leaned quickly forward towards the gendarmes, and hastened to present her passport, but the corporal waved back Madame Cantacuzene’s passport saying, “It is useless, Madame.  We have nothing to do with women’s passports,” and he asked Quinet abruptly, “Your papers?” Quinet held out his passport unfolded.  The gendarmes said to him, “Come out of the carriage, so that we can compare your description.”  It happened, however, that the Wallachian passport contained no description.  The corporal frowned, and said to his subordinates, “An irregular passport!  Go and fetch the Commissary.”

All seemed lost, but Madame Cantacuzene began to speak to Quinet in the most Wallachian words in the world, with incredible assurance and volubility, so much so that the gendarme, convinced that he had to deal with all Wallachia in person, and seeing the train ready to start, returned the passport to Quinet, saying to him, “There! be off with you!”—­a few hours afterwards Edgar Quinet was in Belgium.

Arnauld de l’Ariege also had his adventures.  He was a marked man, he had to hide himself.  Arnauld being a Catholic, Madame Arnauld went to the priest; the Abbe Deguerry slipped out of the way, the Abbe Maret consented to conceal him; the Abbe Maret was honest and good.  Arnauld d’Ariege remained hidden for a fortnight at the house of this worthy priest.  He wrote from the Abbe Maret’s a letter to the Archbishop of Paris, urging him to refuse the Pantheon, which a decree of Louis Bonaparte took away from France and gave to Rome.  This letter angered the Archbishop.  Arnauld, proscribed, reached Brussels, and there, at the age of eighteen months, died the “little Red,” who on the 3d of December had carried the workman’s letter to the Archbishop—­an angel sent by God to the priest who had not understood the angel, and who no longer knew God.

In this medley of incidents and adventures each one had his drama.  Cournet’s drama was strange and terrible.

Cournet, it may be remembered, had been a naval officer.  He was one of those men of a prompt, decisive character, who magnetized other men, and who on certain extraordinary occasions send an electric shock through a multitude.  He possessed an imposing air, broad shoulders, brawny arms, powerful fists, a tall stature, all of which give confidence to the masses, and the intelligent expression which gives confidence to the thinkers.  You saw him pass, and you recognized strength; you heard him speak, and you felt the will, which is more than strength.  When quite a youth he had served