the bivouac-fires of the soldiers encamped in the markets and in the neighborhood of Saint Eustache.  This reflection lighted our way.  The last-maker, however, narrowly escaped falling into a deep hole, which was no less than the cellar of a demolished house.  On coming out of this region, covered with ruins, amongst which here and there a few trees might be perceived, the remains of gardens which had now disappeared, we entered into narrow, winding, and completely dark streets, where it was impossible to recognize one’s whereabouts.  Nevertheless the last-maker walked on as much at his ease as in broad daylight, and like a man who is going straight to his destination.  Once he turned round to me, and said to me,—­

“The whole of this quarter is barricaded; and if, as I hope, our friends come down, I will answer that they will hold it for a long time.”

Suddenly he stopped.  “Here is one,” said he.  In truth, seven or eight paces before us was a barricade entirely constructed of paving-stones, not exceeding a man’s height, and which in the darkness appeared like a ruined wall.  A narrow passage had been formed at one end.  We passed through it.  There was no one behind the barricade.

“There has already been fighting here a short time ago,” said the last-maker in a low voice; and he added, after a pause, “We are getting near.”

The unpaving had left holes, of which we had to be careful.  We strode, and sometimes jumped, from paving-stone to paving-stone.  Notwithstanding the intense darkness, there yet hovered about an indefinable glimmer; on our way we noticed before us on the ground, close to the foot-pavement, something which looked like a stretched-out form.  “The devil!” muttered my guide, “we were just going to walk upon it.”  He took a little wax match from his pocket and struck it on his sleeve; the flame flashed out.  The light fell upon a pallid face, which looked at us with fixed eyes.  It was a corpse lying there; it was an old man.  The last-maker rapidly waved the match from his head to his feet.  The dead man was almost in the attitude of a crucified man; his two arms were stretched out; his white hair, red at the ends, was soaking in the mud; a pool of blood was beneath him; a large blackish patch on his waistcoat marked the place where the ball had pierced his breast; one of his braces was undone; he had thick laced boots on his feet.  The last-maker lifted up one of his arms, and said, “His collar-bone is broken.”  The movement shook the head, and the open mouth turned towards us as though about to speak to us.  I gazed at this vision; I almost listened.  Suddenly it disappeared.

This face re-entered the gloom; the match had just gone out.

We went away in silence.  After walking about twenty paces, the last-maker, as though talking to himself, said in a whisper, “Don’t know him.”

We still pushed forward.  From the cellars to the roofs, from the ground-floors to the garrets, there was not a light in the house.  We appeared to be groping in an immense tomb.