seemed greatly surprised. There was a movement toward him.

"Very well, gentlemen!" cried he, covering the men who sought to
surround him with his pistols, which he had seized again, while the
blood spurted freely from the wound in which he had left his poniard.
"You know our agreement; either I die alone or three of us will die
together. Forward, march!" He walked straight to the guillotine, turning
the knife in his breast as he did so.

"Faith," said he, "my soul must be centred in my belly! I cannot die.
See if you can fetch it out."

This last was addressed to his executioner. An instant later his head
fell. Be it accident or some peculiar phenomenon of the vitality, it
rebounded and rolled beyond the circle of the scaffolding, and they will
still tell you at Bourg, that Hyvert's head spoke.

Before I had finished reading I had decided to abandon Rene d'Argonne
for the Companions of Jehu. On the morrow I came down with my travelling
bag under my arm.

"You are leaving?" said Alexandre to me.

"Yes."

"Where are you going?"

"To Bourg, in Bresse."

"What are you going to do there?"

"Study the neighborhood and consult with the inhabitants who saw
Lepretre, Amiet, Guyon and Hyvert executed."

* * * * *

There are two roads to Bourg--from Paris, of course; one may leave the
train at Macon, and take stage from Macon to Bourg, or, continuing as
far as Lyons, take train again from Lyons to Bourg.

I was hesitating between these two roads when one of the travellers who
was temporarily occupying my compartment decided me. He was going to
Bourg, where he frequently had business. He was going by way of Lyons;
therefore, Lyons was the better way.

I resolved to travel by the same route. I slept at Lyons, and on the
morrow by ten in the morning I was at Bourg.

A paper published in the second capital of the kingdom met my eye. It
contained a spiteful article about me. Lyons has never forgiven me since
1833, I believe, some twenty-four years ago, for asserting that it was
not a literary city. Alas! I have in 1857 the same opinion of Lyons as I
had in 1833. I do not easily change my opinion. There is another city
in France that is almost as bitter against me as Lyons, that is Rouen.
Rouen has hissed all my plays, including Count Hermann.

One day a Neapolitan boasted to me that he had hissed Rossini and
Malibran, "The Barbiere" and "Desdemona."

"That must be true," I answer