He lingered a moment; and lighted a fusee, just for the sake of hearing the old familiar words.

As he bent his head, no one saw the shadow of pain that passed over his face.
But one of them looked at him curiously and earnestly.

"The deuce," he murmured to the man nearest him, "who the dickens is it that French soldier's like ?" The French soldier heard, and, with the cigar in his teeth, moved away quickly.

He was uneasy in the city--uneasy lest he should be recognized by any passer-by or tourist.
"I need not fear that, though," he thought with a smile.

"Ten years!--why, in that world, we used to forget the blackest ruin in ten days, and the best life among us ten hours after its grave was closed.
Besides, I am safe enough.