"The day before, his brother-in-law, knowing he had private enemies, had
come to the house and spent the night trying to induce him to flee, but
all in vain. But the next morning, his house being attacked, he yielded,
and tried to escape by the back door. He was stopped by some of the
National Guard, and placed himself under their protection.

"They took him to the Cours St. Louis, where, being hustled by the crowd
and very ineffectually defended by the Guards, he tried to enter the Cafe
Mercantier, but the door was shut in his face. Being broken by fatigue,
breathless, and covered with dust and sweat, he threw himself on one of
the benches placed against the wall, outside the house. Here he was
wounded by a musket bullet, but not killed. At the sight of his blood
shrieks of joy were heard, and then a young man with a pistol in each
hand forced his way through the throng and killed the old man by two
shots fired point blank in his face.

"Another still more atrocious murder took place in the course of the same
morning. A father and son, bound back to back, were delivered over to
the tender mercies of the mob. Stoned and beaten and covered with each
other's blood, for two long hours their death-agony endured, and all the
while those who could not get near enough to strike were dancing round
them.

"Our time passed listening to such stories; suddenly I saw a friend
running towards the house. I went to meet him. He was so pale that I
hardly dared to question him. He came from the city, and had been at my
house to see what had become of me. There was no one in it, but across
the door lay two corpses wrapped in a blood-stained sheet which he had
not dared to lift.