Rant was seized in his own house and shot. Clos was met by a company,
and seeing Trestaillons, with whom he had always been friends, in its
ranks, he went up to him and held out his hand; whereupon Trestaillons
drew a pistol from his belt and blew his brains out. Calandre being
chased down the rue des Soeurs-Grises, sought shelter in a tavern, but
was forced to come out, and was killed with sabres. Courbet was sent to
prison under the escort of some men, but these changed their minds on the
way as to his punishment, halted, and shot him dead in the middle of the
street.

A wine merchant called Cabanot, who was flying from Trestaillons, ran
into a house in which there was a venerable priest called Cure Bonhomme.
When the cut-throat rushed in, all covered with blood, the priest
advanced and stopped him, crying:

"What will happen, unhappy man, when you come to the confessional with
blood-stained hands?"

"Pooh!" replied Trestaillons, "you must put on your wide gown; the
sleeves are large enough to let everything pass."

To the short account given above of so many murders I will add the
narrative of one to which I was an eye-witness, and which made the most
terrible impression on me of, anything in my experience.

It was midnight. I was working beside my wife's bed; she was just
becoming drowsy, when a noise in the distance caught our attention. It
gradually became more distinct, and drums began to beat the 'generale' in
every direction. Hiding my own alarm for fear of increasing hers, I