fashionably dressed men were exhibiting to a party of ladies the very
airs and graces by which they would have adorned a saloon; here, was a
party at piquet--there, a little group, arranging, for the last time,
their household cares, and settling, with a few small coins, the
account of mutual expenditure. Of the ladies, several were engaged at
needlework--some little preparation for the morrow--the last demand that
ever vanity was to make of them!

Although there was matter of curiosity in all around me, my eyes sought
for hut one object, the cure of St. Blois. Twice or thrice, from the
similarity of dress, I was deceived, and, at last, when I really did
behold him, as he sat alone in a window, reading, I could scarcely
satisfy myself of the reality, he was lividly pale, his eyes deep sunk,
and surrounded with two dark circles, while along his worn cheek
the tears had marked two channels of purple colour. What need of the
guillotine there--the lamp of life was in its last flicker without it.

Our names were called, and the meats placed upon the table. Just as the
head-turnkey was about to give the order to be seated, a loud commotion,
and a terrible uproar in the court beneath, drew every one to the
window. It was a hurdle which, emerging from an archway, broke down from
overcrowding; and now the confusion of prisoners, gaolers, and sentries,
with plunging horses and screaming sufferers, made a scene of the
wildest uproar. Chained two by two, the prisoners were almost helpless,
and in their efforts to escape injury made the most terrific struggle.
Such were the instincts of life in those on the very road to death!

Resolving to profit by the moment of confusion, I hastened to the
window, where alone, unmoved by the general commotion, sat the Pere
Michel. He lifted his glassy eyes as I came near, and in a low, mild
voice said--

'Thanks, my good boy, but I have no money to pay thee; nor does it
matter much now--it is but another day.

I could have cried as I heard these sad words; but mastering emotions
which would have lost time so precious, I drew close, and whispered--

'Pere Michel, it is I, your own Maurice.'

He started, and a deep flush suffused his cheek; and then stretching out
his hand, he pushed back my cap, and parted the hair of my forehead, as
if doubting the reality of what he saw; when with a weak voice he said--

'No, no, thou art not my own Maurice. His eyes shone not with that
worldly lustre--