"The prison! Open the Vier Prison! Break down the doors! Gatd'en'ale--
drive out the devils! Free the prisoners--the poor vauriens!" the crowd
shouted, rushing forward with sticks and weapons.

The prison arched the street as Temple Bar once spanned the Strand. They
crowded under the archway, overpowered the terror-stricken jailer, and,
battering open the door in frenzy, called the inmates forth.

They looked to see issue some sailor seized for whistling of a Sabbath,
some profane peasant who had presumed to wear pattens in church, some
profaner peasant who had not doffed his hat to the Connetable, or some
slip-shod militiaman who had gone to parade in his sabots, thereby
offending the red-robed dignity of the Royal Court.

Instead, there appeared a little Frenchman of the most refined and
unusual appearance. The blue cloth of his coat set off the extreme
paleness of a small but serene face and high round forehead. The hair,
a beautiful silver grey which time only had powdered, was tied in a queue
behind. The little gentleman's hand was as thin and fine as a lady's,
his shoulders were narrow and slightly stooped, his eye was eloquent and
benign. His dress was amazingly neat, but showed constant brushing and
signs of the friendly repairing needle.

The whole impression was that of a man whom a whiff of wind would blow
away; with the body of an ascetic and the simplicity of a child. The
face had some particular sort of wisdom, difficult to define and
impossible to imitate. He held in his hand a tiny cane of the sort
carried at the court of Louis Quinze. Louis Capet himself had given it
to him; and you might have had the life of the little gentleman, but not