Though in all the circumstances it was no more than his due, yet the kindliness that in such a moment of agitation could take thought for another was presently to be rewarded.  Had she done less than this, she would have known — if nothing worse — at least some hours of anguish even greater than those that were already in store for her.

It wanted, perhaps, a half-hour to sunset when they set out in her carriage with intent to leave Paris by the Porte Saint-Martin.  They travelled with a single footman behind.  Rougane — terrifying condescension — was given a seat inside the carriage with the ladies, and proceeded to fall in love with Mlle. de Kercadiou, whom he accounted the most beautiful being he had ever seen, yet who talked to him simply and unaffectedly as with an equal.  The thing went to his head a little, and disturbed certain republican notions which he had hitherto conceived himself to have thoroughly digested.

The carriage drew up at the barrier, checked there by a picket of the National Guard posted before the iron gates.

The sergeant in command strode to the door of the vehicle.  The Countess put her head from the window.

“The barrier is closed, madame,” she was curtly informed.

“Closed!” she echoed.  The thing was incredible.  “But... but do you mean that we cannot pass?”

“Not unless you have a permit, madame.”  The sergeant leaned nonchalantly on his pike.  “The orders are that no one is to leave or enter without proper papers.”

“Whose orders?”

“Orders of the Commune of Paris.”

“But I must go into the country this evening.”  Madame’s voice was almost petulant.  “I am expected.”

“In that case let madame procure a permit.”

“Where is it to be procured?”

“At the Hotel de Ville or at the headquarters of madame’s section.”

She considered a moment.  “To the section, then.  Be so good as to tell my coachman to drive to the Bondy Section.”

He saluted her and stepped back.  “Section Bondy, Rue des Morts,” he bade the driver.

Madame sank into her seat again, in a state of agitation fully shared by mademoiselle.  Rougane set himself to pacify and reassure them.  The section would put the matter in order.  They would most certainly be accorded a permit.  What possible reason could there be for refusing them?  A mere formality, after all!

His assurance uplifted them merely to prepare them for a still more profound dejection when presently they met with a flat refusal from the president of the section who received the Countess.

“Your name, madame?” he had asked brusquely.  A rude fellow of the most advanced republican type, he had not even risen out of deference to the ladies when they entered.  He was there, he would have told you, to perform the duties of his office, not to give dancing-lessons.

“Plougastel,” he repeated after her, without title, as if it had been the name of a butcher or baker.  He took down a heavy volume from a shelf on his right, opened it and turned the pages.  It was a sort of directory of his section.  Presently he found what he sought.  “Comte de Plougastel, Hotel Plougastel, Rue du Paradis.  Is that it?”