ngular; among
others, the skeleton of an ourang-outan, who had disappeared from the
Jardin des Plantes in 1800, a disappearance probably connected with
the famous and indisputable apparition of the devil in the Rue des
Bernardins, in the last year of the eighteenth century. The poor devil
had ended by drowning himself in the sewer.

Beneath this long, arched drain which terminated at the Arche-Marion,
a perfectly preserved rag-picker's basket excited the admiration of all
connoisseurs. Everywhere, the mire, which the sewermen came to handle
with intrepidity, abounded in precious objects, jewels of gold and
silver, precious stones, coins. If a giant had filtered this cesspool,
he would have had the riches of centuries in his lair. At the point
where the two branches of the Rue du Temple and of the Rue Sainte-Avoye
separate, they picked up a singular Huguenot medal in copper, bearing on
one side the pig hooded with a cardinal's hat, and on the other, a wolf
with a tiara on his head.

The most surprising encounter was at the entrance to the Grand Sewer.
This entrance had formerly been closed by a grating of which nothing but
the hinges remained. From one of these hinges hung a dirty and shapeless
rag which, arrested there in its passage, no doubt, had floated there
in the darkness and finished its process of being torn apart. Bruneseau
held his lantern close to this rag and examined it. It was of very fine
batiste, and in one of the corners, less frayed than the rest, they
made out a heraldic coronet and embroidered above these seven letters:
LAVBESP. The crown was the coronet of a Marquis, and the seven letters
signified Laubespine. They recognized the fact, that what they had
before their eyes was a morsel of the shroud of Marat. Marat in his
youth had had amorous intrigues. This was when he was a member of the
household of the Comte d'Artois, in the capacity of physician to the
Stables. From these love affairs, historically proved, with a great
lady, he had retained this sheet. As a waif or a souvenir. At his death,
as this was the only linen of any fineness which he had in his house,
they buried him in it. Some old women had shrouded him for the tomb in
that swaddling-band in which the tragic Friend of the people had enjoyed
voluptuousness. Bruneseau passed on. They left that rag where it hung;
they did not put the finishing touch to it. Did this arise from scorn
or from respect? Marat deserved both. And then, destiny