“Madame,” replied he, “I call the decrees disastrous when I think of their result.  You will certainly admit that our situation to-day ought to make everybody regret the causes which brought it about.”

“We are exactly of the same opinion regarding that point, Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, resuming her serenity.

“The open volcano beneath our feet,” continued Marillac, who still stuck to his point, “warned us by deep rumblings of the hot lava which was about to gush forth.  The excitement of the people was intense.  Several engagements with the soldiers had already taken place at different points.  I stood on the Boulevard Poissonniere, where I had just taken my luncheon, and was gazing with an artist’s eye upon the dramatic scene spread out before me.  Men with bare arms and women panting with excitement were tearing up the pavements or felling trees.  An omnibus had just been upset; the rioters added cabriolets, furniture, and casks to it; everything became means of defence.  The crashing of the trees as they fell, the blows of crowbars on the stones, the confused roaring of thousands of voices, the Marseillaise sung in chorus, and the irregular cannonading which resounded from the direction of the Rue Saint-Denis, all composed a strident, stupefying, tempestuous harmony, beside which Beethoven’s Tempest would have seemed like the buzzing of a bee.

“I was listening to the roaring of the people, who were gnawing at their chains before breaking them, when my eyes happened to fall upon a window of a second-floor apartment opposite me.  A man about sixty years of age, with gray hair, a fresh, plump face, an honest, placid countenance, and wearing a mouse-colored silk dressing-gown, was seated before a small, round table.  The window opened to the floor, and I could see him in this frame like a full-length portrait.  There was a bowl of coffee upon the table, in which he dipped his roll as he read his journal.  I beg your pardon, ladies, for entering into these petty details, but the habit of writing—­”

“I assure you, Monsieur, your story interests me very much,” said Madame de Bergenheim, kindly.

“A King Charles spaniel, like yours, Mademoiselle, was standing near the window with his paws resting upon it; he was gazing with curiosity at the revolution of July, while his master was reading his paper and sipping his coffee, as indifferent to all that passed as if he had been in Pekin or New York.

“‘Oh, the calm of a pure, sincere soul!’ I exclaimed to myself, at the sight of this little tableau worthy of Greuze; ’oh, patriarchal philosophy! in a few minutes perhaps blood will flow in the streets, and here sits a handsome old man quietly sipping his coffee.’  He seemed like a lamb browsing upon a volcano.”

Marillac loved volcanoes, and never lost an opportunity to bring one in at every possible opportunity.

“Suddenly a commotion ran through the crowd; the people rushed in every direction, and in an instant the boulevard was empty.  Plumes waving from high caps, red-and-white flags floating from the ends of long lances, and the cavalcade that I saw approaching through the trees told me the cause of this panic.  A squadron of lancers was charging.  Have you ever seen a charge of lancers?”