From
every door below poured forth a crowd, who fought with one another for a
place next the roadway, waved their red caps, and shouted in a wild sort
of chant some French song. In the rush stalls and barrows were
overturned, but there was no one to heed; children were trampled on, but
no one heard their cries; pockets were picked, but there was no one to
miss their loss; windows were smashed, but there was no one to feel a
draught. To my wondering fancy, all Paris had suddenly turned into this
narrow Rue d'Agnes and there run mad.

I noticed that the one thing all were agreed upon, was to keep a clear
space in the roadway, and strain their necks impatiently in the
direction of the drums; and soon enough the reason of all this
excitement became clear. Drawn by a single horse, and escorted by a
troop of National Guards, came a low open cart, in which sat two
persons, deadly white, gazing in a dazed vacant way at the scene around
them, and sometimes casting a reproachful glance at the slowly plodding
horse. One of the two was an old man, of fine, aristocratic presence,
which the coarse clothes he wore could not disguise. The other was a
low ruffian, with swollen face and bleared eyes, in the dress of a
butcher. Between the two, except that they were on their way to death,
there was nothing in common. Till to-day they had never met, and after
to-day they would never meet again. The crime of one, so I heard, was
that he was related to an aristocrat; that of the other, that he had
murdered his own daughter. For both offences the law of France just
then had but one penalty. And of the two, he who was most execrated and
howled at and spat upon was the gentleman.

In less time than it takes to write it the show had passed. A few of
the crowd followed to see the end of the business. The rest, for the
most part, returned to their callings, and before the drums were out of
hearing the Rue d'Agnes was once more a plain, dirty, ordinary Paris
street.

With a heart a good deal weighted by what I had seen, I turned into the
Cabaret "a l'Irlandois." If I had expected to find anything there to
remind me of my own country, I was sorely disappointed. A few blouse-
clad idlers sat at a table, smoking and drinking sugar and water, and
discussing the news of the day with their host, a surly-looking fellow,
who, whatever his inn might be, was himself a common type of Frenchman.
"Now?" demanded he as I approached. "Monsieur,"