Although the barricade that closed the entrance to the Rue Saint-Florentin and the Rue de Rivoli by its skilled construction and great height appeared even more formidable than the other, Jean’s instinct told him they would have less difficulty in getting by it.  It was completely evacuated, indeed, and the Versailles troops had not yet entered it.  The abandoned guns were resting in the embrasures in peaceful slumber, the only living thing behind that invincible rampart was a stray dog, that scuttled away in haste.  But as Jean was making what speed he could along the Rue Saint-Florentin, sustaining Maurice, whose strength was giving out, that which he had been in fear of came to pass; they fell directly into the arms of an entire company of the 88th of the line, which had turned the barricade.

“Captain,” he explained, “this is a comrade of mine, who has just been wounded by those bandits.  I am taking him to the hospital.”

It was then that the capote which he had thrown over Maurice’s shoulders stood them in good stead, and Jean’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer as at last they turned into the Rue Saint-Honore.  Day was just breaking, and the sound of shots reached their ears from the cross-streets, for fighting was going on still throughout the quartier.  It was little short of a miracle that they finally reached the Rue des Frondeurs without sustaining any more disagreeable adventure.  Their progress was extremely slow; the last four or five hundred yards appeared interminable.  In the Rue des Frondeurs they struck up against a communist picket, but the federates, thinking a whole regiment was at hand, took to their heels.  And now they had but a short bit of the Rue d’Argenteuil to traverse and they would be safe in the Rue des Orties.

For four long hours that seemed like an eternity Jean’s longing desire had been bent on that Rue des Orties with feverish impatience, and now they were there it appeared like a haven of safety.  It was dark, silent, and deserted, as if there were no battle raging within a hundred leagues of it.  The house, an old, narrow house without a concierge, was still as the grave.

“I have the keys in my pocket,” murmured Maurice.  “The big one opens the street door, the little one is the key of my room, way at the top of the house.”

He succumbed and fainted dead away in Jean’s arms, whose alarm and distress were extreme.  They made him forget to close the outer door, and he had to grope his way up that strange, dark staircase, bearing his lifeless burden and observing the greatest caution not to stumble or make any noise that might arouse the sleeping inmates of the rooms.  When he had gained the top he had to deposit the wounded man on the floor while he searched for the chamber door by striking matches, of which he fortunately had a supply in his pocket, and only when he had found and opened it did he return and raise him in his arms again.  Entering, he laid him on the little iron bed that faced the window, which he threw open to its full extent in his great need of air and light.  It was broad day; he dropped on his knees beside the bed, sobbing as if his heart would break, suddenly abandoned by all his strength as the fearful thought again smote him that he had slain his friend.