himself. Naturally quick tempered, his impatience
was extreme when he recognised the individual, and he was imprudent enough
to make a menacing gesture the moment they broke into his dressing-room.
'I am here to see the law enforced,' cries Thirion, on seeing my father
advance with the razor in his hand. 'Well, what law is it that chooses so
worthy an organ?'--'I am here to learn your age, your pursuits, and to
interrogate you as to your journey to Coblentz.' My father, who had from
the first word felt the most violent disposition to toss the man down
stairs, shivered with rage; but, at last, he composed himself, wiped his
chin, laid down his razor, and, crossing his arms, placed himself full in
front of Thirion: then, measuring him from the utmost height of his tall
and elegant person, he said, 'You wish to know my age?'--'Yes, such are my
orders.'--Where is the order?' said my father, extending his hand. 'It is
enough for you to know that I am sent hither by the committee of my
section: my orders are sufficiently proved by my presence.'--Ah! you think
so; I am of a different opinion. Your presence here is nothing but an
insult, unless you have a judiciary order to justify it; show it me, and I
shall forget the name of the man, to see only the public functionary.'
Thirion raised his voice as my father lowered his--'What is your
age?--What was the object of your going to Coblentz?'----My father seizes
a large bamboo, and makes it whistle over Thirion's head--at that moment
my mother rushes in, and succeeds in dragging him into another room, and
restoring him to something like calmness. I remember she placed me in his
arms, whispering to me to entreat him to _think of me_. Meantime, Thirion
had drawn up his _proces verbal_, and withdrawn:--he left me weeping
without knowing why I wept, but I saw that my mother and my sister were in
tears too. My father sat pale, trembling with anger,--everything about us
had a desolate aspect."

The family escape from Paris--and it was time. Violent alternations of
fear, anger, sorrow, terror, and disgust, with frequent disguises, flights,
and all sorts of changes of residence, at length wear out the health and
spirits of M. Permon--a man, apparently, who united dull enough intellect
with all the vivacity of a Frenchman's mere temperament; and he dies in
obscurity long before anything like order is re-established. We need not
dwell on the particular fortunes of a not very interesting set