While walking almost at hazard, following this bat, looking
at this manure of the birds, respiring this dust, in this
obscurity among the cobwebs and scampering rats, we came
to a dark corner in which, on a big wheelbarrow, I could
just distinguish a long package tied with string and that
looked like a piece of rolled up cloth.

"What is that?" I asked the beadle.

"That," said he, "is Charles X.'s coronation carpet."

I stood gazing at the thing, and as I did so--I am telling
truthfully what occurred--there was a deafening report
that sounded like a thunder-clap, only it came from below.
It shook the timber-work and echoed and re-echoed through
the church. It was succeeded by a second roar, then a third,
at regular intervals. I recognised the thunder of the cannon,
and remembered the gun I had seen in the square.

I turned to my guide:

"What is that noise?"

"The telegraph has been at work and the cannon has
been fired."

"What does it mean?" I continued.

"It means," said the beadle, "that a grandson has just