t's pictures.

"The truth is," she added, with a smile, "there is still money in
France, but it keeps in hiding."

Better still, now Art was ruined, she would obtain Evariste a post in
Morhardt's bank or with the Brothers Perregaux, or a place as clerk in
the office of an army contractor.

Then she reflected that this was not what a man of his character needed;
and, after a moment's thought, she nodded in sign that she had hit the
nail on the head:

"There are still several jurymen left to be appointed on the
Revolutionary Tribunal. Juryman, magistrate, that is the thing to suit
your son. I have friendly relations with the Committee of Public Safety.
I know Robespierre the elder personally; his brother frequently sups at
my house. I will speak to them. I will get a word said to Montane,
Dumas, Fouquier."

The _citoyenne_ Gamelin, bursting with excitement and gratitude, put a
finger to her lip; Evariste was coming back into the studio.

He escorted the _citoyenne_ Rochemaure down the gloomy staircase, the
steps of which, whether of wood or tiled, were coated with an ancient
layer of dirt.

On the Pont-Neuf, where the sun, now near its setting, threw a
lengthened shadow from the pedestal that had borne the Bronze Horse and
was now gay with the National colours, a crowd of men and women of the
people gathered in little groups were listening to some tale that was
being told them. Consternation reigned and a heavy silence, broken at
intervals by groans and fierce cries. Many were making off at a rapid
pace in the direction of the Rue de Thionville, erstwhile Rue Dauphine;
Gamelin joined one of these groups and heard the news--that Marat had
just been assassinated.

Little by little the tidings were confirmed and particulars became
known; he had been murdered in his bath by a woman who had come
expressly from Caen to commit the crime.

Some thought she had escaped; but the majority declared she had been
arrested.

There they stood like sheep without a shepherd, thinking sadly:

"Marat, the tender-hearted, the humane, Marat our benefactor, is no
longer there to guide us, Marat who was never deceived, who saw through
every subterfuge and never feared to reveal the truth!... What can we
do, what is to become of us? We have lost our adviser, our champion, our
friend." They knew very well whence the blow had come, and who had
directed the woman's arm. They groaned aloud:

"Marat has been struck down by the same cri