“By milk-women, with their cans and carts, coming into the town.

“By roysterers who had been drinking at the taverns of the Barrier, for it was Mid-Lent.

“By the sergeants of the watch, who eyed him sternly as he passed near their halberds.

“But he passed on unmoved by their halberds,

“Unmoved by the cries of the roysterers,

“By the market-women coming with their milk and eggs.

“He walked through the Rue St. Honore, I say:—­

“By the Rue Rambuteau,

“By the Rue St. Antoine,

“By the King’s Chateau of the Bastille,

“By the Faubourg St. Antoine.

“And he came to No. 29 in the Rue Picpus—­a house which then stood between a court and garden—­

“That is, there was a building of one story, with a great coach-door.

“Then there was a court, around which were stables, coach-houses, offices.

“Then there was a house—­a two-storied house, with a perron in front.

“Behind the house was a garden—­a garden of two hundred and fifty French feet in length.

“And as one hundred feet of France equal one hundred and six feet of England, this garden, my friends, equalled exactly two hundred and sixty-five feet of British measure.

“In the centre of the garden was a fountain and a statue—­or, to speak more correctly, two statues.  One was recumbent,—­a man.  Over him, sabre in hand, stood a woman.

“The man was Olofernes.  The woman was Judith.  From the head, from the trunk, the water gushed.  It was the taste of the doctor:—­was it not a droll of taste?

“At the end of the garden was the doctor’s cabinet of study.  My faith, a singular cabinet, and singular pictures!—­

“Decapitation of Charles Premier at Vitehall.

“Decapitation of Montrose at Edimbourg.

“Decapitation of Cinq Mars.  When I tell you that he was a man of a taste, charming!

“Through this garden, by these statues, up these stairs, went the pale figure of him who, the porter said, knew the way of the house.  He did.  Turning neither right nor left, he seemed to walk through the statues, the obstacles, the flower-beds, the stairs, the door, the tables, the chairs.

“In the corner of the room was that instrument, which Guillotin had just invented and perfected.  One day he was to lay his own head under his own axe.  Peace be to his name!  With him I deal not!

“In a frame of mahogany, neatly worked, was a board with a half-circle in it, over which another board fitted.  Above was a heavy axe, which fell—­you know how.  It was held up by a rope, and when this rope was untied, or cut, the steel fell.

“To the story which I now have to relate, you may give credence, or not, as you will.  The sleeping man went up to that instrument.

“He laid his head in it, asleep.”

“Asleep?”