THE FATE OF ICIODORUM. 223 
the poplar-trees, the wheat-fields looked yellow 
through the city gates, the poppies along the 
hedgerows stood out in scarlet contrast, the Café 
du Lion d’Or was covered with flags and with red 
ribbons in honor of, Jacques, while the Café de la 
Comédie was similarly draped in blue in honor of 
his rival. The people were out in their best clothes 
and Issoire-made boots, and the candidates were 
among them, —all smiles and attention, though I 
thought that a slightly misanthropic expression 
lurked about the big workman’s mouth. 
The bands played, and rival processions moved 
about in the street. The longest of these carried 
banners inscribed “ Vive l’Octroi! A bas Cler- 
mont! Le Surplus toujours! De Roncevalle for- 
ever!” Everybody seemed falling into line; and 
so I followed, keeping step with the music, 
All at once I heard a fearful, blood-curdling 
scream. The procession swiftly dissolved, the 
music ceased, the banners vanished. I rubbed my 
eyes and looked about me. I was sitting on an 
inverted nail-keg at the Clermont gate just out- 
side the city of Issoire. The old gendarme who 
guarded the gate was slowly drawing a dripping 
sword out of a large bundle of oats, in which he 
had thrust it while performing his duty as inspec- 
tor. Within the oats was great excitement. The 
contraband pig concealed inside was lustily kick- 
ing and filling the air with his frantic screams, 
And thus I knew that the city had been saved, 
for the octroi was still going on. 
And it is going on yet. 
