LITMIR.BIZ

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of dirt and water. It was pleasant to see the crowd tramping about in the mud.

      We got into the carriage—the usher and the soldiers in front; the priest, a policeman, and myself in the hindmost compartment.

      Four mounted gendarmes surrounded the carriage; thus, without counting the driver, there were eight men to guard one poor wretch. As I got in I heard an old woman say, “Well, for my part I prefer that to the galley-slaves’ chain.”

      I understood her—the sight was simpler, more easy to be taken in at a glance.

      The carriage started; I heard the echoing sound as it rolled under the main portal of the Bicêtre, whose heavy gates closed behind us. I felt stupefied, like a man who has fallen into a trance, who can neither stir nor cry out, though he knows that they are burying him alive.

      I listened dreamily to the jingle of the bells in the horses’ collars, the rolling of the wheels, and the cadenced trot of the escort’s horses, and the crack of the driver’s whip. It seemed as if I was being carried away in a whirlwind.

      Through the bars of a window in front of me my eyes caught an inscription in large letters over the Bicêtre—Hospital for the Aged.

      “Ha!” exclaimed I, “it appears then that some people do grow old there.”

      All at once the vehicle made a sudden turn, which changed the scene. Now I saw the towers of Notre Dame rising through the mist of Paris.

      “Those who have a place in the tower where the flagstaff is will have a good view,” thought I.

      I think that it was about this time that the priest began talking again. I let him go on without interruption; my ears were filled with the noise of the wheels, the horses’ hoofs, and the coachman’s whip—what mattered a little more noise?

      I listened then to this flow of words, which soothed my feelings, like the murmur of falling water, when the sharp voice of the usher broke the silence.

      “Well, Abbé,” exclaimed he, “what news have you to-day?”

      The chaplain, who had never ceased talking to me, made no reply.

      “Hé, hé!” resumed the usher, raising his voice to drown the sound of the wheels, “what an infernal carriage this is!”

      Infernal, indeed, for I found it so.

      He continued: “It is the jolting and the rumbling, no doubt, that prevents your hearing me—what was I saying? Ah! your reverence, have you heard to-day’s news that is exciting all Paris?”

      I trembled; was he speaking of me?

      “No,” answered the priest, who had at last heard him, “I have not had time to read the morning papers; but I suppose I shall see it all in the evening. When I am much engaged, I tell our porter to keep them for me, and I read them on my return.”

      “What!” exclaimed the usher; “is it possible that you have not heard the news of this morning—the news that is convulsing Paris?”

      I interrupted him.

      “I think that I know it.”

      The usher stared at me.

      “You! well, really, what do you say to it?”

      “You are too curious,” replied I.

      “Why so, sir?” answered the usher. “Every one has his own opinion regarding politics, and I respect you too much not to presume that you have yours. For my part I am entirely in favour of the reconstruction of the National Guard; I was the sergeant of my company, and faith, it was most pleasant——”

      I interrupted him again.

      “It was not that I had imagined which caused the excitement, but something else.”

      “What was it then? You said you knew it.”

      “I was referring to something else that Paris was thinking of to-day.”

      The idiot did not yet understand me.

      “Some more news! How on earth did you manage to pick them up? Can you guess what it can be, your reverence? Come, pray let me know. You cannot imagine how fond I am of a piece of news. I will repeat it to the President, it will amuse him.”

      And he uttered a hundred more platitudes, turning to the priest and to myself. I shrugged my shoulders.

      “Well,” continued he, “what are you thinking of?”

      “I was thinking,” answered I, “that I shall think no more this evening!”

      “Ah! that is what is troubling you; you are cast down. Come, cheer up; Mr. Castaing talked all the way.”

      Then, after a pause, he continued: “I escorted Mr. Papavoine; he wore his otter-skin cap, and smoked all the way. As to those young people from Rochelle, they talked to each other the whole time.”

      “Madmen, enthusiasts,” he added, “they appeared to despise all the world; but really, my young friend, you are too sad.”

      “Young!” answered I, bitterly; “I am older than you. Each quarter of an hour as it passes adds a year to my age.”

      He turned round and looked at me for a few seconds with unfeigned surprise.

      “You are joking—older than I am; why I might be your grandfather.”

      “I was not joking,” answered I, gravely.

      He opened his snuff-box.

      “There, my dear sir, do not be angry, and do not bear me a grudge.”

      “I shall not bear it long,” was my reply.

      At this moment the snuff-box, which he had placed against the barred division, was shaken from his hand by a violent jolt of the vehicle, and fell at his feet.

      “Confound the bars!” cried he. “Am I not unlucky? I have lost all my snuff!”

      “I am losing more than you,” answered I, with a smile.

      He endeavoured to pick up the snuff, grumbling to himself.

      “Losing more than me! that is easy to say; not a grain of snuff until I get to Paris; it is awful!”

      The chaplain condoled with him on his loss; and, whether it was that I was preoccupied or not, I do not know, but it seemed to me as if this consolation fitted very well with the exhortation that he had commenced to me.

      Little by little the conversation between the priest and the usher increased, whilst I buried myself in my own thoughts.

      As we passed the barrier, the noise of the great city seemed louder than usual.

      The vehicle stopped a moment at the office of the Customs whilst the officers examined it. If it had been an ox or a sheep that was being taken to the slaughter-house a fee would have to have been paid, but man goes free.

      The boulevard once passed, we plunged into those old winding streets of the Cité and the Faubourg St. Marceau, which intersect each other like the paths of an ant-hill. On the stone-paved roadway of their streets the noise of the vehicle was so deafening that it drowned all exterior sounds. When I glanced through the little window it seemed to me as if the passers-by stopped to gaze after the carriage, whilst crowds of children followed at a run. At the crossings I could see ragged men and women holding in their hands bundles of newspapers which were eagerly purchased by the crowd.

      Half-past eight sounded from the palace clocks as we arrived in the courtyard of the Conciergerie. The sight of the wide staircase, the gloomy chapel, and the sinister-looking wickets froze my blood. When the carriage stopped, I thought that my heart too would stop beating.

      I summoned up my courage. The door was thrown open like a flash of lightning; I leapt from my rolling dungeon, and found myself under an archway between two ranks of soldiers. A curious crowd had already collected to watch my arrival.

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