to the wants of his children. Thereupon, he began to
be somewhat embarrassed pecuniarily. He left Rue Royale and took up his
abode at the Hotel du Petit-Charolais, belonging to his mother, who
allowed him to install himself there. Events moved rapidly; one evening,
in the early days of the guillotine, as he was walking along Rue
Saint-Antoine, he heard a hawker in front of him, crying the journal:
_Aux Voleurs! Aux Voleurs!_ According to the usual custom of those
days, he gave a list of the articles contained in the number he had for
sale: Monsieur de Varandeuil heard his own name mingled with oaths and
obscenity. He bought the paper and read therein a revolutionary
denunciation of himself.

Some time after, his brother was arrested and detained at Hotel Talaru
with the other Farmers-General. His mother, in a paroxysm of terror, had
foolishly sold the Hotel du Petit-Charolais, where he was living, for
the value of the mirrors: she was paid in _assignats_, and died of
despair over the constant depreciation of the paper. Luckily Monsieur de
Varandeuil obtained from the purchasers, who could find no tenants,
leave to occupy the rooms formerly used by the stableboys. He took
refuge there, among the outbuildings of the mansion, stripped himself of
his name and posted at the door, as he was ordered to do, his family
name of Roulot, under which he buried the _De Varandeuil_ and the former
courtier of the Comte d'Artois. He lived there alone, buried, forgotten,
hiding his head, never going out, cowering in his hole, without
servants, waited upon by his daughter, to whom he left everything. The
Terror was to them a period of shuddering suspense, the breathless
excitement of impending death. Every evening, the little girl went and
listened at a grated window to the day's crop of condemnations, the
_List of Prize Winners in the Lottery of Saint Guillotine_. She answered
every knock at the door, thinking that they had come to take her father
to the Place de la Revolution, whither her uncle had already been taken.
The moment came when money, the money that was so scarce, no longer
procured bread. It was necessary to go and get it, almost by force, at
the doors of the bakeries; it was necessary to earn it by standing for
hours in the cold, biting night air, in the crushing pressure of crowds
of people; to stand in line from three o'clock in the morning. The
father did not care to venture into that mass of humanity. He was afraid
of b