It was nearly six o’clock in the afternoon of the 23d of September.  The day had been rainy, but the sky had cleared an hour before sunset, and there was a sweet damp freshness in the air, very grateful after the long weeks of late summer.  Anastase Gouache had been on duty at the Serristori barracks in the Borgo Santo Spirito and walked briskly up to the bridge of Sant’ Angelo.  There was not much movement in the streets, and the carriages were few.  A couple of officers were lounging at the gate of the castle and returned Gouache’s salute as he passed.  In the middle of the bridge he stopped and looked westward, down the short reach of the river which caught a lurid reflection of the sunset on its eddying yellow surface.  He mused a moment, thinking more of the details of his duty at the barracks than of the scene before him.  Then he thought of the first time he had crossed the bridge in his Zouave uniform, and a faint smile flickered on his brown features.  It happened almost every day that he stopped at the same place, and as particular spots often become associated with ideas that seem to belong to them, the same thought almost always recurred to his mind as he stood there.  Then followed the same daily wondering as to how all these things were to end; whether he should for years to come wear the red sash and the yellow gaiters, a corporal of Zouaves, and whether for years he should ask himself every day the same question.  Presently, as the light faded from the houses of the Borgo, he turned away with an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders and continued his walk upon the narrow pavement at the side of the bridge.  As he descended the step at the end, to the level of the square, a small bright object in a crevice of the stones attracted his attention.  He stooped and picked it up.

It was a little gold pin, some two inches long, the head beaten out and twisted into the shape of the letter C. Gouache examined it attentively, and saw that it must have been long used, for it was slightly bent in more than one place as though it had often been thrust through some thick material.  It told no other tale of its possessor, however, and the young man slipped it into his pocket and went on his way, idly wondering to whom the thing belonged.  He reflected that if he had been bent on any important matter he would probably have considered the finding of a bit of gold as a favourable omen; but he was merely returning to his lodging as usual, and had no engagement for the evening.  Indeed, he expected no event in his life at that time, and following the train of his meditation he smiled a little when he thought that he was not even in love.  For a Frenchman, nearly thirty years of age, the position was an unusual one enough.  In Gouache’s case it was especially remarkable.  Women liked him, he liked them, and he was constantly in the society of some of the most beautiful in the world.  Nevertheless, he turned from one to another and found a like pleasure in the