gratitude; the sin
of turning a deaf ear to the claims of humanity."

"My own noble Eugene!" exclaimed the young girl, enthusiastically,
pressing her lover's hand. "Every day increases my love, my respect
for you, and my sense of my own unworthiness. But you will never have
to blush for the inferiority of your wife."

"What do you mean, dearest?" inquired Eugene, with alarm.

"This is no time for marriage," said Eulalie, sadly. "Images of death
and violence meet our eyes whichever way they turn. We were born,
Eugene, in melancholy times, and our loves are misplaced. We shall
meet hereafter; on this earth, I fear, our destinies will never be
united."

"Prophetess of evil!" said Beauvallon, gayly. "Your rosy lips belie
your gloomy augury. No, Eulalie, this dark cloud cannot forever
overshadow the land--even now I think I can see glimpses of the blue
sky. _Le bon temps viendra_,--the good time is coming,--and then,
Eulalie, be sure that I will claim your promised hand."

The conversation of the lovers had been so animated and interesting
that they did not notice the moment when old Mannette had glided like
a spectre from the apartment.

Beauvallon lingered a while,--"parting is such sweet sorrow,"--and
finally reluctantly tore himself from the presence of Eulalie,
promising to see her again on the ensuing day, and let her know
whatever had transpired in the interim.

As he approached the street in which his store and house were
situated, he heard the confused murmur of a multitude, and soon
perceived, on turning the corner, that a very large crowd was
collected outside his door. There were men and women--many of the
former armed with pikes and sabres--the latter, the refuse of the
populace, who appeared like birds of evil omen at every scene of
violence and tumult.

A hundred voices called out his name as he approached, and menacing
gestures were addressed to him by the multitude.

"Citizens," said the merchant, "what is the meaning of all this?"

"You shall know, traitor," shrieked a palsied hag of eighty, whose
lurid eyes had already gloated on every public execution that had
taken place in Toulouse. "Here is Citizen Dumart of the revolutionary
committee--ah, _he_ is a true friend of the people--he is no
aristocrat in disguise! _Vive le Citoyen Dumart!_"

"Long live Citizen Dumart! Down with the aristocrats!" shouted a
hundred voices.

The Citizen Dumart was a sallow-faced man, dressed in rusty black,
we