ter broke up. A few
lingered round the gate, with, perhaps some hope of admission to visit
their friends but the greater number departed.

My hunger was now such, that I could no longer deny myself the
long-promised meal, and I looked about me for a shop where I might buy a
loaf of bread. In my search, I suddenly found myself opposite an immense
shop, where viands of every tempting description were ranged with all
that artistic skill so purely Parisian, making up a picture whose
composition Snyders would not have despised. Over the door was a
painting of a miserable wretch, with hands bound behind him, and his
hair cut close in the well-known crop for the scaffold, and underneath
was written, "Au Scelerat;" while on a larger board, in gilt letters,
ran the inscription:

"Boivin Pere et Fils, Traiteurs pour M. lea Condammees."

I could scarcely credit my eyes as I read and re-read this infamous
announcement; but there it stood, and in the crowd that poured
incessantly to and from the door, I saw the success that attended the
traffic. A ragged knot were gathered around the window, eagerly gazing
at something, which, by their exclamations, seemed to claim all their
admiration. I pressed forward to see what it was, and beheld a miniature
guillotine, which, turned by a wheel, was employed to chop the meat for
sausages. This it was that formed the great object of attraction, even
to those to whom the prototype had grown flat and uninteresting.

Disgusted as I was by this shocking sight, I stood watching all that
went forward within with a strange interest. It was a scene of incessant
bustle and movement, for now, as one o'clock drew nigh, various dinners
were getting ready for the prisoners, while parties of their friends
were assembling inside. Of these latter, there seemed persons of every
rank and condition: some, dressed in all the brilliancy of the _mode_;
others, whose garments bespoke direst poverty. There were women, too,
whose costume emulated the classic drapery of the ancients, and who
displayed, in their looped togas, no niggard share of their forms; while
others, in shabby mourning, sat in obscure corners, not noticing the
scene before them, nor noticed themselves. A strange equipage, with two
horses extravagantly bedizened with rosettes and bouquets, stood at the
door; and as I looked, a pale, haggard-looking man, whose foppery in
dress contrasted oddly with his care-worn expression, hurried from the
sho