hand for one of the bills which Charamaule was distributing.  “Sergeant,” said Charamaule to him, “cry, ‘Down with Soulouque!’” The sergeant hesitated for a moment, and answered “No.”  “Well, then,” replied Charamaule, “Shout, ‘Long live Soulouque.’” This time the sergeant did not hesitate, he raised his sword, and, amid bursts of laughter and of applause, he resolutely shouted, “Long live Soulouque!”

The reading of the Decree added a gloomy warmth to the popular anger.  They set to work on all sides to tear down the placards of the coup d’etat.  At the door of the Cafe des Varietes a young man cried out to the officers, “You are drunk!” Some workmen on the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle shook their fists at the soldiers and said, “Fire, then, you cowards, on unarmed men!  If we had guns you would throw the butts of your muskets in the air.”  Charges of cavalry began to be made in front of the Cafe Cardinal.

As there were no troops on the Boulevard St. Martin and the Boulevard du Temple, the crowd was more compact pact there than elsewhere.  All the shops were shut there; the street lamps alone gave any light.  Against the gloss of the unlighted windows heads might be dimly seen peering out.  Darkness produced silence; this multitude, as we have already said, was hushed.  There was only heard a confused whispering.  Suddenly a light, a noise, an uproar burst forth from the entrance of the Rue St. Martin.  Every eye was turned in that direction; a profound upheaving agitated the crowd; they rushed forward, they pressed against the railings of the high pavements which border the cutting between the theatres of the Porte St. Martin and the Ambigu.  A moving mass was seen, and an approaching light.  Voices were singing.  This formidable chorus was recognized,

    “Aux armes, Citoyens; formez vos bataillons!”

Lighted torches were coming, it was the “Marseillaise,” that other torch of Revolution and of warfare which was blazing.

The crowd made way for the mob which carried the torches, and which were singing.  The mob reached the St. Martin cutting, and entered it.  It was then seen what this mournful procession meant.  The mob was composed of two distinct groups.  The first carried on its shoulders a plank, on which could be seen stretched an old man with a white beard, stark, the mouth open, the eyes fixed, and with a hole in his forehead.  The swinging movement of the bearers shook the corpse, and the dead head rose and fell in a threatening and pathetic manner.  One of the men who carried him, pale, and wounded in the breast, placed his hand to his wound, leant against the feet of the old man, and at times himself appeared ready to fall.  The other group bore a second litter, on which a young man was stretched, his countenance pale and his eyes closed, his shirt stained, open over his breast, displaying his wounds.  While bearing the two litters the groups sang.  They sang the “Marseillaise,” and at each chorus they stopped and raised their torches, crying, “To arms!” Some young men waved drawn swords.  The torches shed a lurid light on the pallid foreheads of the corpses and on the livid faces of the crowd.  A shudder ran through the people.  It appeared as though they again saw the terrible vision of February, 1848.