ink the rabble would find it insufferable that a gentleman's
carriage should be driven so recklessly in this crowded thoroughfare, my
dear Beaufort," returned Calvert, quietly, looking intently at that same
rabble as it edged and shuffled and slipped its way along into the great
street. At Calvert's remark, the young Frenchman shrugged his shoulders
and shook his reins over his impatient horses until the chime of silver
bells around their necks rang again. "As usual--in revolt against the
powers that be," he laughed.

Calvert leaned forward. "What is it?" he said. "There seems to be some
commotion. They are carrying something."

'Twas as he had said. In the crowd of poor-looking people was a still
closer knot of men, evidently carrying some heavy object.

"Qu'est ce qu'il y a, mon ami?" said Calvert, touching a man on the
shoulder who had been pushed close to the sleigh. The man addressed
looked around. He was poorly and thinly clothed, with only a ragged
muffler knotted about his throat to keep off the stinging cold. From
under his great shaggy eyebrows a pair of wild, sunken eyes gleamed
ferociously, but there was a smile upon his lips.

"'Tis nothing, M'sieur," he said, nonchalantly. "'Tis only a poor wretch
who has died from the cold and they are taking him away. You see he
could not get any charcoal this morning when he went to Monsieur
Juigne. 'Tis best so." He turned away carelessly, and, forcing himself
through the crowd, was soon lost to sight.

"There are many such," said Beaufort, gloomily, in answer to Calvert's
look of inquiry. "What will you have? The winter has been one of
unexampled, of never-ending cold. The government, the cures, the nobles
have done much for the poor wretches, but it has been impossible to
relieve the suffering. They have, at least, to be thankful that freezing
is such an easy death, and when all is said, they are far better off
dead than alive. But it is extremely disagreeable to see the shivering
scarecrows on the streets, and they ought to be kept to the poorer
quarters of the city." He had thrown off his look of gloom and spoke
carelessly, though with an effort, as he struck the horses, which
started again down the great avenue.

Calvert looked for an instant at Beaufort. "'Tis unlike you to speak
so," he said, at length. Indeed, ever since the young man had come into
the breakfast-room at the Legation, Calvert had been puzzled by some
strange difference in his former friend