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An Episode Under the Terror ............................................................................................................................1

Honore de Balzac .....................................................................................................................................1

On the 22nd of January, 1793, towards eight o'clock in the evening, an old lady came down the steep street

that comes to an end opposite the Church of Saint Laurent in the Faubourg Saint Martin. It had snowed so

heavily all day long that the lady's footsteps were scarcely audible; the streets were deserted, and a feeling of

dread, not unnatural amid the silence, was further increased by the whole extent of the Terror beneath which

France was groaning in those days; what was more, the old lady so far had met no one by the way. Her sight

had long been failing, so that the few foot passengers dispersed like shadows in the distance over the wide

thoroughfare through the faubourg, were quite invisible to her by the light of the lanterns.

She had passed the end of the Rue des Morts, when she fancied that she could hear the firm, heavy tread of a

man walking behind her. Then it seemed to her that she had heard that sound before, and dismayed by the

idea of being followed, she tried to walk faster toward a brightly lit shop window, in the hope of verifying the

So soon as she stood in the shaft of light that streamed out across the road, she turned her head suddenly, and

caught sight of a human figure looming through the fog. The dim vision was enough for her. For one moment

she reeled beneath an overpowering weight of dread, for she could not doubt any longer that the man had

followed her the whole way from her own door; then the desire to escape from the spy gave her strength.

Unable to think clearly, she walked twice as fast as before, as if it were possible to escape from a man who of

course could move much faster; and for some minutes she fled on, till, reaching a pastrycook's shop, she

A young woman busy with embroidery looked up from her work at the rattling of the doorlatch, and looked

out through the square window panes. She seemed to recognize the oldfashioned violet silk mantle, for she

went at once to a drawer as if in search of something put aside for the newcomer. Not only did this movement

and the expression of the woman's face show a very evident desire to be rid as soon as possible of an

unwelcome visitor, but she even permitted herself an impatient exclamation when the drawer proved to be

empty. Without looking at the lady, she hurried from her desk into the back shop and called to her husband,

"Wherever have you put?" she began mysteriously, glancing at the customer by way of finishing her

The pastrycook could only see the old lady's headdress, a huge black silk bonnet with knots of violet

ribbon round it, but he looked at his wife as if to say, "Did you think I should leave such a thing as that lying

The old lady kept so still and silent that the shopkeeper's wife was surprised. She went back to her, and on a

nearer view a sudden impulse of pity, blended perhaps with curiosity, got the better of her. The old lady's face

was naturally pale; she looked as though she secretly practised austerities; but it was easy to see that she was

paler than usual from recent agitation of some kind. Her headdress was so arranged as to almost hide hair

that was white, no doubt with age, for there was not a trace of powder on the collar of her dress. The extreme

plainness of her dress lent an air of austerity to her face, and her features were proud and grave. The manners

and habits of people of condition were so different from those of other classes in former times that a noble

was easily known, and the shopkeeper's wife felt persuaded that her customer was a cidevant, and that she

"Madame," she began with involuntary respect, forgetting that the title was proscribed.

But the old lady made no answer. She was staring fixedly at the shop windows as though some dreadful thing

had taken shape against the panes. The pastrycook came back at that moment, and drew the lady from her

"Nothing, nothing, my friends," she answered, in a gentle voice. She looked up at the man as she spoke, as if

to thank him by a glance; but she saw the red cap on his head, and a cry broke from her. "Ah! YOU have

The man and his young wife replied by an indignant gesture, that brought the color to the old lady's face;

"Forgive me!" she said, with a childlike sweetness in her tones. Then, drawing a gold louis from her pocket,

There is a kind of want that is felt instinctively by those who know want. The man and his wife looked at one

another, then at the elderly woman before them, and read the same thoughts in each other's eyes. That bit of

gold was so plainly the last. Her hands shook a little as she held it out, looking at it sadly but ungrudgingly,

as one who knows the full extent of the sacrifice. Hunger and penury had carved lines as easy to read in her

face as the traces of asceticism and fear. There were vestiges of bygone splendor in her clothes. She was

dressed in threadbare silk, a neat but wellworn mantle, and daintily mended lace,in the rags of former

grandeur, in short. The shopkeeper and his wife, drawn two ways by pity and selfinterest, began by lulling

"And it is so cold," continued his wife; "perhaps you have caught a chill, madame, on your way here. But you

The kindly intention in the words and tones of the charitable couple won the old lady's confidence. She said

He handed the gold coin to his wife, and then went out to put on his National Guard's uniform, impelled

thereto by the idea of making some adequate return for the money; an idea that sometimes slips into a

tradesman's head when he has been prodigiously overpaid for goods of no great value. He took up his cap,

buckled on his sabre, and came out in full dress. But his wife had had time to reflect, and reflection, as not

unfrequently happens, closed the hand that kindly intentions had opened. Feeling frightened and uneasy lest

her husband might be drawn into something unpleasant, she tried to catch at the skirt of his coat, to hold him

back, but he, good soul, obeying his charitable first thought, brought out his offer to see the lady home,

"The man of whom the citoyenne is afraid is still prowling about the shop, it seems," she said sharply.

"How if it is a spy? . . . a plot? . . . Don't go. And take the box away from her"

The words whispered in the pastrycook's ear cooled his hot fit of courage down to zero.

"Oh! I will just go out and say a word or two. I will rid you of him soon enough," he exclaimed, as he

The old lady meanwhile, passive as a child and almost dazed, sat down on her chair again. But the honest

pastrycook came back directly. A countenance red enough to begin with, and further flushed by the bake

house fire, was suddenly blanched; such terror perturbed him that he reeled as he walked, and stared about

"Miserable aristocrat! Do you want to have our heads cut off?" he shouted furiously. "You just take to your

heels and never show yourself here again. Don't come to me for materials for your plots."

He tried, as he spoke, to take away the little box which she had slipped into one of her pockets. But at the

touch of a profane hand on her clothes, the stranger recovered youth and activity for a moment, preferring to

face the dangers of the street with no protector save God, to the loss of the thing she had just paid for. She

sprang to the door, flung it open, and disappeared, leaving the husband and wife dumfounded and quaking

Once outside in the street, she started away at a quick walk; but her strength soon failed her. She heard the

sound of the snow crunching under a heavy step, and knew that the pitiless spy was on her track. She was

obliged to stop. He stopped likewise. From sheer terror, or lack of intelligence, she did not dare to speak or to

look at him. She went slowly on; the man slackened his pace and fell behind so that he could still keep her in

Nine o'clock struck as the silent man and woman passed again by the Church of Saint Laurent. It is in the

nature of things that calm must succeed to violent agitation, even in the weakest soul; for if feeling is infinite,

our capacity to feel is limited. So, as the stranger lady met with no harm from her supposed persecutor, she

tried to look upon him as an unknown friend anxious to protect her. She thought of all the circumstances in

which the stranger had appeared, and put them together, as if to find some ground for this comforting theory,

Forgetting the fright that he had given the pastrycook, she walked on with a firmer step through the upper

end of the Faubourg Saint Martin; and another halfhour's walk brought her to a house at the corner where

the road to the Barriere de Pantin turns off from the main thoroughfare. Even at this day, the place is one of

the least frequented parts of Paris. The north wind sweeps over the Buttes Chaumont and Belleville, and

whistles through the houses (the hovels rather), scattered over an almost uninhabited lowlying waste, where

the fences are heaps of earth and bones. It was a desolatelooking place, a fitting refuge for despair and

The sight of it appeared to make an impression upon the relentless pursuer of a poor creature so daring as to

walk alone at night through the silent streets. He stood in thought, and seemed by his attitude to hesitate. She

could see him dimly now, under the street lamp that sent a faint, flickering light through the fog. Fear gave

her eyes. She saw, or thought she saw, something sinister about the stranger's features. Her old terrors awoke;

she took advantage of a kind of hesitation on his part, slipped through the shadows to the door of the solitary

For awhile the stranger stood motionless, gazing up at the house. It was in some sort a type of the wretched

dwellings in the suburb; a tumbledown hovel, built of rough stones, daubed over with a coat of yellowish

stucco, and so riven with great cracks that there seemed to be danger lest the slightest puff of wind might

blow it down. The roof, covered with brown mossgrown tiles, had given way in several places, and looked

as though it might break down altogether under the weight of the snow. The frames of the three windows on

each story were rotten with damp and warped by the sun; evidently the cold must find its way inside. The

house standing thus quite by itself looked like some old tower that Time had forgotten to destroy. A faint

light shone from the attic windows pierced at irregular distances in the roof; otherwise the whole building

Meanwhile the old lady climbed not without difficulty up the rough, clumsily built staircase, with a rope by

way of a handrail. At the door of the lodging in the attic she stopped and tapped mysteriously; an old man

"Hide! hide!" she exclaimed, looking up at him. "Seldom as we leave the house, everything that we do is

"The man that has been prowling about the house yesterday and today, followed me tonight"

At those words all three dwellers in the wretched den looked in each other's faces and did not try to

dissimulate the profound dread that they felt. The old priest was the least overcome, probably because he ran

the greatest danger. If a brave man is weighed down by great calamities or the yoke of persecution, he begins,

as it were, by making the sacrifice of himself; and thereafter every day of his life becomes one more victory

snatched from fate. But from the way in which the women looked at him it was easy to see that their intense

"Why should our faith in God fail us, my sisters?" he said, in low but fervent tones. "We sang His praises

through the shrieks of murderers and their victims at the Carmelites. If it was His will that I should come

alive out of that butchery, it was, no doubt, because I was reserved for some fate which I am bound to endure

without murmuring. God will protect His own; He can do with them according to His will. It is for you, not

"No," answered one of the women. "What is our life compared to a priest's life?"

"Once outside the Abbaye de Chelles, I look upon myself as dead," added the nun who had not left the house,

"Do not be alarmed if somebody tries to come in," said the priest. "Somebody on whom we could depend was

to make all necessary arrangements for crossing the frontier. He is to come for the letters that I have written

to the Duc de Langeais and the Marquis de Beauseant, asking them to find some way of taking you out of this

dreadful country, and away from the death or the misery that waits for you here."

"But are you not going to follow us?" the nuns cried under their breath, almost despairingly.

"My post is here where the sufferers are," the priest said simply, and the women said no more, but looked at

"Sister Marthe," he said, "the messenger will say Fiat Voluntas in answer to the word Hosanna."

"There is some one on the stairs!" cried the other nun, opening a hidingplace contrived in the roof.

This time it was easy to hear, amid the deepest silence, a sound echoing up the staircase; it was a man's tread

on the steps covered with dried lumps of mud. With some difficulty the priest slipped into a kind of

He was scarcely hidden before three raps sounded on the door. The holy women looked into each other's eyes

They seemed both to be about sixty years of age. They had lived out of the world for forty years, and had

grown so accustomed to the life of the convent that they could scarcely imagine any other. To them, as to

plants kept in a hothouse, a change of air meant death. And so, when the grating was broken down one

morning, they knew with a shudder that they were free. The effect produced by the Revolution upon their

simple souls is easy to imagine; it produced a temporary imbecility not natural to them. They could not bring

the ideas learned in the convent into harmony with life and its difficulties; they could not even understand

their own position. They were like children whom mothers have always cared for, deserted by their maternal

providence. And as a child cries, they betook themselves to prayer. Now, in the presence of imminent danger,

The man at the door, taking silence for consent, presented himself, and the women shuddered. This was the

prowler that had been making inquiries about them for some time past. But they looked at him with

frightened curiosity, much as shy children stare silently at a stranger; and neither of them moved.

The newcomer was a tall, burly man. Nothing in his behavior, bearing, or expression suggested malignity as,

following the example set by the nuns, he stood motionless, while his eyes traveled round the room.

Two straw mats laid upon planks did duty as beds. On the one table, placed in the middle of the room, stood a

brass candlestick, several plates, three knives, and a round loaf. A small fire burned in the grate. A few bits of

wood in a heap in a corner bore further witness to the poverty of the recluses. You had only to look at the

coating of paint on the walls to discover the bad condition of the roof, and the ceiling was a perfect network

of brown stains made by rainwater. A relic, saved no doubt from the wreck of the Abbaye de Chelles, stood

like an ornament on the chimneypiece. Three chairs, two boxes, and a rickety chest of drawers completed

the list of the furniture, but a door beside the fireplace suggested an inner room beyond.

The brief inventory was soon made by the personage introduced into their midst under such terrible auspices.

It was with a compassionate expression that he turned to the two women; he looked benevolently at them, and

seemed, at least, as much embarrassed as they. But the strange silence did not last long, for presently the

stranger began to understand. He saw how inexperienced, how helpless (mentally speaking), the two poor

"I am far from coming as an enemy, citoyennes" he began. Then he suddenly broke off and went on,

"Sisters, if anything should happen to you, believe me, I shall have no share in it. I have come to ask a favor

"If I am annoying youifif I am intruding, speak freely, and I will go; but you must understand that I am

entirely at your service; that if I can do anything for you, you need not fear to make use of me. I, and I only,

There was such a ring of sincerity in the words that Sister Agathe hastily pointed to a chair as if to bid their

guest be seated. Sister Agathe came of the house of Langeais; her manner seemed to indicate that once she

had been familiar with brilliant scenes, and had breathed the air of courts. The stranger seemed half pleased,

half distressed when he understood her invitation; he waited to sit down until the women were seated.

"You are giving shelter to a reverend father who refused to take the oath, and escaped the massacres at the

"HOSANNA!" Sister Agathe exclaimed eagerly, interrupting the stranger, while she watched him with

"In that case you should be more careful and on your guard," he answered gently, stretching out his hand for

He stopped; for, at the sight of the great emotion in the faces of the two poor nuns, he was afraid that he had

"Do not fear," he said frankly. "I know your names and the name of your guest. Three days ago I heard of

"Hush!" Sister Agathe cried, in the simplicity of her heart, as she laid her finger on her lips.

"You see, Sisters, that if I had conceived the horrible idea of betraying you, I could have given you up

"I cannot believe, monsieur, that you can be one of our persecutors," he said, addressing the stranger, "and I

The priest's holy confidence, the nobleness expressed in every line in his face, would have disarmed a

murderer. For a moment the mysterious stranger, who had brought an element of excitement into lives of

misery and resignation, gazed at the little group; then he turned to the priest and said, as if making a

confidence, "Father, I came to beg you to celebrate a mass for the repose of the soul ofofof an august

Involuntarily the abbe shivered. As yet, neither of the Sisters understood of whom the stranger was speaking;

they sat with their heads stretched out and faces turned towards the speaker, curiosity in their whole attitude.

The priest meanwhile, was scrutinizing the stranger; there was no mistaking the anxiety in the man's face, the

"Very well," returned the abbe. "Come back at midnight. I shall be ready to celebrate the only funeral service

A quiver ran through the stranger, but a sweet yet sober satisfaction seemed to prevail over a hidden anguish.

He took his leave respectfully, and the three generous souls felt his unspoken gratitude.

Two hours later, he came back and tapped at the garret door. Mademoiselle de Beauseant showed the way

into the second room of their humble lodging. Everything had been made ready. The Sisters had moved the

old chest of drawers between the two chimneys, and covered its quaint outlines over with a splendid altar

The bare walls looked all the barer, because the one thing that hung there was the great ivory and ebony

crucifix, which of necessity attracted the eyes. Four slender little altar candles, which the Sisters had

contrived to fasten into their places with sealingwax, gave a faint, pale light, almost absorbed by the walls;

the rest of the room lay wellnigh in the dark. But the dim brightness, concentrated upon the holy things,

looked like a ray from Heaven shining down upon the unadorned shrine. The floor was reeking with damp.

An icy wind swept in through the chinks here and there, in a roof that rose sharply on either side, after the

fashion of attic roofs. Nothing could be less imposing; yet perhaps, too, nothing could be more solemn than

this mournful ceremony. A silence so deep that they could have heard the faintest sound of a voice on the

Route d'Allemagne, invested the nightpiece with a kind of sombre majesty; while the grandeur of the

serviceall the grander for the strong contrast with the poor surroundingsproduced a feeling of reverent

The Sisters kneeling on each side of the altar, regardless of the deadly chill from the wet brick floor, were

engaged in prayer, while the priest, arrayed in pontifical vestments, brought out a golden chalice set with

gems; doubtless one of the sacred vessels saved from the pillage of the Abbaye de Chelles. Beside a

ciborium, the gift of royal munificence, the wine and water for the holy sacrifice of the mass stood ready in

two glasses such as could scarcely be found in the meanest tavern. For want of a missal, the priest had laid his

breviary on the altar, and a common earthenware plate was set for the washing of hands that were pure and

undefiled with blood. It was all so infinitely great, yet so little, povertystricken yet noble, a mingling of

The stranger came forward reverently to kneel between the two nuns. But the priest had tied crape round the

chalice of the crucifix, having no other way of marking the mass as a funeral service; it was as if God himself

had been in mourning. The man suddenly noticed this, and the sight appeared to call up some overwhelming

Then the four silent actors in the scene looked mysteriously at one another; and their souls in emulation

seemed to stir and communicate the thoughts within them until all were melted into one feeling of awe and

pity. It seemed to them that the royal martyr whose remains had been consumed with quicklime, had been

called up by their yearning and now stood, a shadow in their midst, in all the majesty of a king. They were

celebrating an anniversary service for the dead whose body lay elsewhere. Under the disjointed laths and

tiles, four Christians were holding a funeral service without a coffin, and putting up prayers to God for the

soul of a King of France. No devotion could be purer than this. It was a wonderful act of faith achieved

without an afterthought. Surely in the sight of God it was like the cup of cold water which counterbalances

the loftiest virtues. The prayers put up by two feeble nuns and a priest represented the whole Monarchy, and

possibly at the same time, the Revolution found expression in the stranger, for the remorse in his face was so

great that it was impossible not to think that he was fulfilling the vows of a boundless repentance.

When the priest came to the Latin words, Introibo ad altare Dei, a sudden divine inspiration flashed upon

him; he looked at the three kneeling figures, the representatives of Christian France, and said instead, as

though to blot out the poverty of the garret, "We are about to enter the Sanctuary of God!"

These words, uttered with thrilling earnestness, struck reverent awe into the nuns and the stranger. Under the

vaulted roof of St. Peter's at Rome, God would not have revealed Himself in greater majesty than here for the

eyes of the Christians in that poor refuge; so true is it that all intermediaries between God and the soul of man

The stranger's fervor was sincere. One emotion blended the prayers of the four servants of God and the King

in a single supplication. The holy words rang like the music of heaven through the silence. At one moment,

tears gathered in the stranger's eyes. This was during the Pater Noster; for the priest added a petition in Latin,

and his audience doubtless understood him when he said: "Et remitte scelus regicidis sicut Ludovicus eis

The Sisters saw two great tears trace a channel down the stranger's manly checks and fall to the floor. Then

the office for the dead was recited; the Domine salvum fac regem chanted in an undertone that went to the

hearts of the faithful Royalists, for they thought how the childKing for whom they were praying was even

then a captive in the hands of his enemies; and a shudder ran through the stranger, as he thought that a new

The service came to an end. The priest made a sign to the sisters, and they withdrew. As soon as he was left

alone with the stranger, he went towards him with a grave, gentle face, and said in fatherly tones:

"My son, if your hands are stained with the blood of the royal martyr, confide in me. There is no sin that may

not be blotted out in the sight of God by penitence as sincere and touching as yours appears to be."

At the first words the man started with terror, in spite of himself. Then he recovered composure, and looked

"Father," he said, and the other could not miss the tremor in his voice, "no one is more guiltless than I of the

"I am bound to believe you," said the priest. He paused a moment, and again he scrutinized his penitent. But,

persisting in the idea that the man before him was one of the members of the Convention, one of the voters

who betrayed an inviolable and anointed head to save their own, he began again gravely:

"Remember, my son, that it is not enough to have taken no active part in the great crime; that fact does not

absolve you. The men who might have defended the King and left their swords in their scabbards, will have a

very heavy account to render to the King of HeavenAh! yes," he added, with an eloquent shake of the

head, "heavy indeed!for by doing nothing they became accomplices in the awful wickedness"

"But do you think that an indirect participation will be punished?" the stranger asked with a bewildered look.

"There is the private soldier commanded to fall into lineis he actually responsible?"

The priest hesitated. The stranger was glad; he had put the Royalist precisian in a dilemma, between the

dogma of passive obedience on the one hand (for the upholders of the Monarchy maintained that obedience

was the first principle of military law), and the equally important dogma which turns respect for the person of

a King into a matter of religion. In the priest's indecision he was eager to see a favorable solution of the

doubts which seemed to torment him. To prevent too prolonged reflection on the part of the reverend

"I should blush to offer remuneration of any kind for the funeral service which you have just performed for

the repose of the King's soul and the relief of my conscience. The only possible return for something of

inestimable value is an offering likewise beyond price. Will you deign, monsieur, to take my gift of a holy

As he spoke the stranger held out a box; it was very small and exceedingly light. The priest took it

mechanically, as it were, so astonished was he by the man's solemn words, the tones of his voice, and the

The two men went back together into the first room. The Sisters were waiting for them.

"This house that you are living in belongs to Mucius Scaevola, the plasterer on the first floor," he said. "He is

well known in the Section for his patriotism, but in reality he is an adherent of the Bourbons. He used to be a

huntsman in the service of his Highness the Prince de Conti, and he owes everything to him. So long as you

stay in the house, you are safer here than anywhere else in France. Do not go out. Pious souls will minister to

your necessities, and you can wait in safety for better times. Next year, on the 21st of January,"he could

not hide an involuntary shudder as he spoke,"next year, if you are still in this dreary refuge, I will come

He broke off, bowed to the three, who answered not a word, gave a last look at the garret with its signs of

Such an adventure possessed all the interest of a romance in the lives of the innocent nuns. So, as soon as the

venerable abbe told them the story of the mysterious gift, it was placed upon the table, and by the feeble light

of the tallow dip an indescribable curiosity appeared in the three anxious faces. Mademoiselle de Langeais

opened the box, and found a very fine lawn handkerchief, soiled with sweat; darker stains appeared as they

The women, aghast, allowed the precious relic to fall. For their simple souls the mystery that hung about the

stranger grew inexplicable; as for the priest, from that day forth he did not even try to understand it.

Before very long the prisoners knew that, in spite of the Terror, some powerful hand was extended over them.

It began when they received firewood and provisions; and next the Sisters knew that a woman had lent

counsel to their protector, for linen was sent to them, and clothes in which they could leave the house without

causing remark upon the aristocrat's dress that they had been forced to wear. After awhile Mucius Scaevola

gave them two civic cards; and often tidings necessary for the priest's safety came to them in roundabout

ways. Warnings and advice reached them so opportunely that they could only have been sent by some person

in the possession of state secrets. And, at a time when famine threatened Paris, invisible hands brought

rations of "white bread" for the proscribed women in the wretched garret. Still they fancied that Citizen

Mucius Scaevola was only the mysterious instrument of a kindness always ingenious, and no less intelligent.

The noble ladies in the garret could no longer doubt that their protector was the stranger of the expiatory mass

on the night of the 22nd of January, 1793; and a kind of cult of him sprung up among them. Their one hope

was in him; they lived through him. They added special petitions for him to their prayers; night and morning

the pious souls prayed for his happiness, his prosperity, his safety; entreating God to remove all snares far

from his path, to deliver him from his enemies, to grant him a long and peaceful life. And with this daily

renewed gratitude, as it may be called, there blended a feeling of curiosity which grew more lively day by

day. They talked over the circumstances of his first sudden appearance, their conjectures were endless; the

stranger had conferred one more benefit upon them by diverting their minds. Again, and again, they said,

when he next came to see them as he promised, to celebrate the sad anniversary of the death of Louis XVI.,

The night so impatiently awaited came at last. At midnight the old wooden staircase echoed with the

stranger's heavy footsteps. They had made the best of their room for his coming; the altar was ready, and this

time the door stood open, and the two Sisters were out at the stairhead, eager to light the way. Mademoiselle

"Come," she said, with a quaver in the affectionate tones, "come in; we are expecting you."

He raised his face, gave her a dark look, and made no answer. The sister felt as if an icy mantle had fallen

over her, and said no more. At the sight of him, the glow of gratitude and curiosity died away in their hearts.

Perhaps he was not so cold, not so taciturn, not so stern as he seemed to them, for in their highly wrought

mood they were ready to pour out their feeling of friendship. But the three poor prisoners understood that he

wished to be a stranger to them; and submitted. The priest fancied that he saw a smile on the man's lips as he

saw their preparations for his visit, but it was at once repressed. He heard mass, said his prayer, and then

disappeared, declining, with a few polite words, Mademoiselle de Langeais' invitation to partake of the little

After the 9th Thermidor, the Sisters and the Abbe de Marolles could go about Paris without the least danger.

The first time that the abbe went out he walked to a perfumer's shop at the sign of The Queen of Roses, kept

by the Citizen Ragon and his wife, court perfumers. The Ragons had been faithful adherents of the Royalist

cause; it was through their means that the Vendean leaders kept up a correspondence with the Princes and the

Royalist Committee in Paris. The abbe, in the ordinary dress of the time, was standing on the threshold of the

shop which stood between Saint Roch and the Rue des Frondeurswhen he saw that the Rue Saint

"Nothing," she said; "it is only the tumbril cart and the executioner going to the Place Louis XV. Ah! we used

to see it often enough last year; but today, four days after the anniversary of the twentyfirst of January, one

"Eh! but it is the execution of Robespierre's accomplices. They defended themselves as long as they could,

The crowd poured by like a flood. The abbe, yielding to an impulse of curiosity, looked up above the heads,

and there in the tumbril stood the man who had heard mass in the garret three days ago.

"That is the headsman," answered M. Ragon, calling the executioner the executeur des hautes

"Oh! my dear, my dear! M. l'Abbe is dying!" cried out old Madame Ragon. She caught up a flask of vinegar,

"He must have given me the handkerchief that the King used to wipe his brow on the way to his martyrdom,"

murmured he. " . . . Poor man! . . . There was a heart in the steel blade, when none was found in all France . .