what mattered it if all these Frenchmen cut each other's throats? There
were just so many the fewer to breed soldiers to fight against the
Fatherland, in the war of revenge of which they are always talking.

So the days went on, and there were ever more days behind
them--east-windy, bleak days, such as we have in Pomerania and in
Prussia, but seldom in Paris. The city was even then, with the red flag
floating overhead, beautiful for situation--the sky clear save for the
little puffs of smoke from the bombs when they shelled the forts, and
Valerien growled in reply.

The constant rattle of musketry came from the direction of Versailles.
It was late one afternoon that I went towards the Halles, and as I went
I saw a company of the Guard National, tramping northward to the Buttes
Montmartre where the cannons were. In their midst was a man with white
hair at whom I looked--the same whom we had seen at the market-stalls.
He marched bareheaded, and a pair of the scoundrels held him, one at
either sleeve.

Behind him came his daughter, weeping bitterly but silently, and with
the salt water fairly dripping upon her plain black dress.

"What is this?" I asked, thinking that the cordon of the Public Safety
would pass me, and that I might perhaps benefit my friend of the white
locks.

"Who may you be that asks so boldly?" said one of the soldiers
sneeringly.

They were ill-conditioned, white-livered hounds.