‘When I got out of prison,’ he began, gently, ‘I made tracks, of course, for my old workshop. My patron^* had a particular liking for me before; but when he saw me he turned green with fright and showed me the door with a shaking hand.’

While he stood in the street, uneasy and disconcerted, he was accosted by a middle-aged man who introduced himself as an engineer’s fitter, too. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘I have attended your trial. You are a good comrade and your ideas are sound. But the devil of it is that you shall not be able to get work now anywhere. These bourgeois’ll conspire to starve you. That’s their way. Expect no mercy from them.’

To be spoken to so kindly in the street had comforted him very much. His seemed to be the sort of nature needing support and sympathy. The idea of not being able to find work had knocked him over completely. If his patron, who knew him so well for a quiet, orderly, competent workman, would have nothing to do with him now—then surely nobody else would. That was clear. The police, keeping their eye on him, would hasten to warn every employer inclined to give him a chance. He felt suddenly very helpless, alarmed, and idle; and he followed the middle-aged man to the estaminet^* round the corner to meet some other good companions. They assured him that he would not be allowed to starve, work or no work. They had drinks all round to the discomfiture of all employers of labour and to the destruction of society.

He sat biting his lower lip.

‘That is, monsieur, how I became a compagnon,’^* he said. The hand he passed over his forehead was trembling. ‘All the same, there’s something wrong in a world where a man can get lost for a glass more or less.’

He never looked up, though I could see he was getting excited under his dejection. He slapped the bench with his open palm.

‘No!’ he cried. ‘It was an impossible existence! Watched by the police, watched by the comrades! I did not belong to myself any more. Why, I could not even go to draw a few francs from my savings-bank without a comrade hanging about the door to see that I didn’t bolt! And most of them were neither more nor less than housebreakers. The intelligent, I mean. They robbed the rich; they were only getting back their own, they said. When I had had some drink I believed them. There were also the fools and the mad. Des exaltés—quoi!^* When I was drunk I loved them. When I got more drink I was angry with the world. That was the best time. I found refuge from misery in rage. But one can’t be always drunk—n’est- ce pas, monsieur?^* And when I was sober I was afraid to break away. They would have stuck me like a pig.’

He folded his arms again and raised his sharp chin with a bitter smile.

‘By and by they told me it was time to go to work. The work was to rob a bank. Afterwards a bomb would be thrown to wreck the place. My beginner’s part would be to keep watch in a street at the back and to take care of a black bag with the bomb inside^* till it was wanted. After the meeting at which the affair was arranged a trusty comrade did not leave me an inch. I had not dared to protest; I was afraid of being done away with quietly in that room; only, as we were walking together I wondered whether it would not be better for me to throw myself suddenly into the Seine. But while I was turning it over in my mind we had crossed the bridge, and afterwards I had not the opportunity.’

In the light of the candle end, with his sharp features, fluffy little mustache, and oval face, he looked at times delicately and gayly young, and then appeared quite old, decrepit, full of sorrow, pressing his folded arms to his breast.

As he remained silent I felt bound to ask: