" "The Nun in
dishabille!"

Before the next shop he came upon Philippe Desmahis, who, with a tender,
conquering-hero air, among the _citoyenne_ Saint-Jorre's perfumes and
powders and sachets, was assuring the fair tradeswoman of his undying
love, promising to paint her portrait and begging her to vouchsafe him a
moment's talk that evening in the Tuileries gardens. There was no
resisting him; persuasion sat on his lips and beamed from his eye. The
_citoyenne_ Saint-Jorre was listening without a word, her eyes on the
ground, only too ready to believe him.

* * * * *

Wishing to familiarize himself with the awful duties imposed on him, the
new juror resolved to mingle with the throng and look on at a case
before the Tribunal as a member of the general public. He climbed the
great stairs on which a vast crowd was seated as in an amphitheatre and
pushed his way into the ancient Hall of the Parlement of Paris.

This was crammed to suffocation; some General or other was taking his
trial. For in those days, as old Brotteaux put it, "the Convention,
copying the example of His Britannic Majesty's Government, made a point
of arraigning beaten Generals, in default of traitorous Generals, the
latter taking good care not to stand their trial. Not that a beaten
General," Brotteaux would add, "is necessarily criminal, for in the
nature of things there must be one in every battle. But there's nothing
like condemning a General to death for giving encouragement to others."

Several had already appeared before the Tribunal; they were all alike,
these empty-headed, opinionated soldiers with the brains of a sparrow in
an ox's skull. This particular commander was pretty nearly as ignorant
of the sieges and battles of his own campaign as the magistrates who
were questioning him; both sides, prosecution and defence, were lost in
a fog of effectives, objectives, munitions and ammunitions, marches and
counter-marches. But the mass of citizens listening to these obscure and
never-ending details could see behind the half-witted soldier the bare
and bleeding breast of the fatherland enduring a thousand deaths; and by
look and voice urged the jurymen, sitting quietly on their bench, to use
their verdict as a club to fell the foes of the Republic.

Evariste was firmly convinced of one thing,--what they had to strike at
in the pitiful creature was the two dread monsters that were battening
on the fatherland, revolt