belonging to a monk, on the third story | took upon himself to burn them up, of this prison. He was happier than I but not in that chamber. The smoke am, for he was a believer. He could and the smell there would never do. look up to heaven, and see his true He rolled up the bundle and took it country there. But my heaven, my with him to his own room. beloved, has been thy presence. Perhaps I shall never see you any more. Farewell. So long as I live I am thine. CLAUDE."

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Those mysterious clothes must disappear. "Ah, Nettie, my poor child,' he thought, "how you carried out your purpose without a word!"

The petticoats and jacket were soon committed to the flames. It was strange, the old man thought, that the sight of the blood on them caused him so little horror.

Citizen Andrey walked up and down the room with this letter in his hand. He could trace in it presentiments of coming evil. He shook his head. Claude probably did not know, when he wrote, what had happened to his He laid the garments on the top of enemy. Parbleu! but the monster the fire on his hearth, but they burned had deserved his fate. Claude would very slowly. He poked them with the soon find it out, for there would be no one in power now who had any interest in persecuting him. His uncle would find some means to let him know that he was not forgotten. He would never fail him. He had grown brave and firm.

He formed his plans at once for Claude's release. As soon as Manette should be a little better, he would ask Grégoire to go with him to see Citizen Bazire. Brigette, who was putting a cool bandage on the head of her mistress, gave a sudden start and a little scream. Then, without a word, she rushed to the adjoining closet, and brought forth a bundle of wet clothes, which she flung on the floor. "I did not know," she said, "but now I fully understand. If madame went out in the night, it was in these clothes. I heard her say so just this minute. Where could she have got them ?"

She opened the bundle. The black cloak fell out, and the cotton skirt, and the knitted petticoat. On one of the jacket sleeves there was a stain of blood. The old man and the servant looked at each other.

"How had she got them ?"

Brigette knew nothing of Citoyenne Lamblet's second visit after dark the night before. "Monsieur," she said presently, "don't you think we ought to burn them ?"

Citizen Andrey made a sign of assent. She was right; they might be mute witnesses, if discovered. He

tongs, scattering the black crust, which, as they were consumed, formed over them. The heat became suffocating. He was about to open the window when he remembered that it would be unsafe to send the smoke and the smell of burning wool into the street. It would have to ascend to the upper story, but that was empty. An old lady had lived there whose son had found means to escape from Paris, and she had gone into hiding, that she might not be arrested under the cruel law which proscribed the relatives of emigrés.

"Ah, Nénette !" he murmured, 66 one cannot efface the traces of thy crime without suffering-for it was a crime - say what we will, to kill is a crime, and always must be. But may it be forgiven thee !"

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The old man smiled.

All was burned at last, except the cloak, which would be the hardest of all. He was about to do the best with it he could, and unrolled it for the purpose, when he, like Brigette by the bedside of her mistress, gave a start and a sharp cry. The Spanish dagger had dropped from it to the ground. Its blade was red. The blood had dried upon it. Assuredly she would have got rid of it ere this if the fear had not made her incapable of thought or action. The old man's hands trembled.

He threw two large logs on the fire, and made them burn up fiercely. The ebony handle of the dagger soon crum

bled into ashes. The blade was con- over the prison who has no bowels torted by the heat. He flung on more of mercy. Since he came, we have wood. The room grew like an oven; been subjected to many indignities but at last only a steel fragment lay and many privations. Our cells are among the ashes, an unrecognizable bit | searched, and those who have any of metal. Citizen Andrey's task was objects very dear to them, have them ended. It had lasted an hour. all taken away. When he went back into Manette's allowed any lights. chamber she seemed more tranquil. darkness. Oh, my Brigette kept the wet cloths constantly about her head, and now, with the assistance of the old man, made her drink a few drops of tisane with the opium. Night soon after came on, and the patient slept.

Then the profound silence seemed very terrible to the watchers by her bed. The old man sat there during the hours of the day while Brigette took some sleep. At night she was the watcher. Manette was drowsy most of the time. Occasionally she would grow violent, as if distressed by some terrible vision, but she rarely spoke intelligible words. At such times she would scream and fling herself restlessly about the bed, but, for the most part, she never stirred. Her face lay ghastly white upon the pillows, with her long hair unconfined.

When a crisis of this sort occurred, Citizen Andrey, if he was on guard, walked up and down the room, wringing his old hands. "Nature must pull her through," he would exclaim. "Oh, Nettie, who would close my eyes if I should lose you?" But Brigette knelt and prayed for her if these paroxysms came on during her hours of watching. The third day of Manette's illness another letter came from Claude. This time it was brought by the post. The day was the 4th Pluvoise - the 24th of January. It seemed Claude had despaired too soon. He was still able to write, for the letter was to Manette, as usual.

It was dated the 3rd Pluvoise, 8 A.M. "I am very much depressed, my dearest, and I cannot account for it, since I am confident you love me. The good man who has compassion on my misery, promised that you should get this letter. He would pay dearly for his humanity if it should be discovered, for a new man has been set

After dark we are not We go to bed in dearest, I am terribly cast down. I feel that dangers thicken round me. Yesterday my jailer told me that the president of the Section Poissonière has been assassinated. Is it true? He was probably my only personal enemy, but I cannot rejoice at his death. The jailer tells me that several prisoners whom I have known have been taken before the Revolutionary Tribunal. Two have been acquitted. They are free; they are happy! It may be my turn next. But do not be alarmed. Nothing makes me think I am likely to be called; it is only a presentiment. I shall probably lie long months in prison. Ah, my love, away from thee! I may possibly be able to send you another letter. Yours as long as life lasts.

"CLAUDE." Citizen Andrey repeated the words, "As long as life lasts." Claude was right. Fresh dangers encompassed him. It was possible that Cilly's death, so far from proving his deliverance, might draw the net closer around his victim. The old man drew near

Manette's bed. She was asleep, and he whispered: "Oh, Nénette, when you struck that blow, did you know what you were doing ?"

Somebody was at the door. Brigette was asleep. Old Andrey went and opened it. He found himself face to face with Citizen Grégoire. One look passed between them. Something terrible had taken place, or was about to happen. Grégoire came in without saying a word. Citizen Andrey drew back to let him pass, but his legs shook under him. At last he found words: "Is it Claude ?" Grégoire put his arm round his old friend, but he said nothing. They went back into the chamber. Grégoire led his friend to an armchair; he dropped into it heav

ily. On the bed lay Manette, white | bed, and leaning over it whispered and still. She would not hear the hoarsely: "Oh! Nénette - could you news he brought for a long while. only understand!" "Better so," he said to himself. "Bet

ter for her."

He took out of his pocket a newspaper; he unfolded it and laid it upon Andrey's knees.

But, happily for her, she never did.


ON the 2nd of Vendémaire of the year III, the Criminal Tribunal Ex"REPORT OF THE REVOLUTIONARY traordinary (that was the legal desigTRIBUNAL, ESTABLISHED AT THE nation of the Revolutionary Tribunal) PALAIS DE JUSTICE, BY THE DE- held a memorable session. It took CREE OF MARCH 10, 1793." place in the same hall where hundreds "Sentenced on the 3d Pluvoise of of innocent people had been conthe year II. Agathe Jollivet, featherdresser; Marie Françoise More, dressmaker; Louis Claude Cézaron; François Jean de Tremblay, ci-devant nobleman; Rosalie d'Albert; Antoine Louis Champagne, priest and canon. Rosalie d'Albert was acquitted."

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demned, but the spirit of the place was changed. The same black plumes adorned the hats of the judges, but the befeathered head-gear covered other heads. There were twelve jurymen as there had always been, but now they were as anxious to acquit as their predecessors had been to condemn. They did not stand in dread of the cruel, pox-marked face of FouquierTinville, framed by his long, straight hair. The new public prosecutor, Citizen Leblois, stated his cases gravely and moderately. He was there, he said, to see that no outrage was done to innocence, the "daughter of the skies." That day the Tribunal had pronounced seven acquittals, and not

one condemnation.

The last man to be acquitted was a sorry figure, dressed in a tattered carmagnole. As he left the Hall of Justice, two men endeavored to speak to him. Both were strangers to him, and to each other. To one he said a few words only, the other, an elderly man, evidently connected with some learned profession, failed to get through the press in time to detain him. Both met on the steps of the Palais de Jus

Grégoire came and sat down beside tice, and looked after his retreating him.

"He was sentenced yesterday," he said, "at noon. The execution took place at four o'clock. Cilly's death hastened his fate. It seems Cilly was holding back Fouquier-Tinville in his case for some reason. He said 'Wait; I will tell you when to strike.' As soon as he was gone Fouquier took the poor fellow's head."

The old man rose, went slowly to the


One of these citizens was Maximilian Grégoire. He wore his old frieze coat and small-clothes; a white waistcoat had replaced the one of Foulon's blood, which had been assumed out of compliment, as it were, to the bloodthirstiness of the period, and he had resumed his white stockings. The other man remarked to him : “Do you know that young man, the last person

acquitted by the Revolutionary Tri- | wore ragged clothes but they dealt in bunal ?" precious metals. Possibly they would

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By the Criminal Tribunal Extraor- have been quite as ready to extract dinary in the sanctuary of regenerated gold from the pockets of the stranger, justice,' "corrected Grégoire, "whose who looked as if he might have some sessions I have attended ever since about him, in one way as another. Thermidor, that I might have the Gold louis were worth thousands of pleasure of beholding innocence francs in assignats, and their value avenged.'


enhanced day by day. The citizen thus "That last man whom they acquitted addressed pushed past the men with to-day is one to whom I think I should an impatient gesture, and turned into make a communication. He looked what had been once the Palais Royal. miserable enough as he stood there in He walked swiftly through the long his torn carmagnole. I heard that they arcades, where at that time of day was had arrested him in Brumaire, sleep- concentrated the very life of the great ing in a gully in the Bois de Bou-city, panting for pleasure and for liblogne." erty of action after the terrible experiences it had passed through. A motley crowd thronged the palace gardens, refreshing, however, after the great heat of a summer day-the hottest summer of the eighteenth century. Through this crowd, which seemed little to attract his notice, the man elbowed his way. He was tall and well dressed. He wore a swallow-tailed coat, a waistcoat of India silk striped with red, and a cravat of muslin, very fine. But he looked too preoccupied to have anything in common with the pleasure seekers round him.

Yes. They took him to Sainte Pélagie, and there, for ten months he has obstinately refused to disclose his name. Possibly, that may have saved him. But, citizen, we must admire his strength of will.”

"He gave his name, however, at last to the Tribunal; it was Citizen Laurent de Laverdac," said the other. "I heard it said that he was anxious to get news of his wife, arrested on the night of the same day when Marat was assassinated. They sent her a night or two after from the Prison of La Force to the National Hospital, of which I was in charge at that period. I tried to make my way to the man but the crowd was great, and I lost sight of him. If you know him

"I spoke to him as he came out, but he seemed too much in haste to wait, and only said he should be this evening under the colonnades of the Palais Egalité. We had a mutual friend. His name was Claude Cézaron. He, too, poor fellow, died a victim to tyranny." 66 Well," " said the other, "if you see him tell him this," and he whispered a few words in Citizen Grégoire's ear.

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He grew tired of pushing his way through the throng, and turned into one of the galleries, where, as if by a sudden impulse, he made his way, with the air of an habitué, into the Café Corazza, and seated himself at a table.


Citizen, would you like a glass of crême de café de la Citoyenne Amphoux?" said a waiter, proposing to him the fashionable liquid of the day.

He made a sign of assent, not caring what he ordered; put his elbows on the table, and hid his face in his hands.

His prevailing thought (but many thoughts combined with it) was of the first news he had obtained on coming out of prison. Claude Cézaron was dead.

Laurent de Laverdac rejoiced that he himself should be still living. He was glad he had had the resolution to suffer solitary confinement, the browbeating of examiners, and the cruelty of jailers exasperated by his obstinacy, rather

than tell his name. Nothing had over- | much ceremony, wondering not a little come his resolution or his courage. at the transformation he beheld in the man whom he had seen that morning in the tattered carmagnole.

All that was over now. What he had suffered was a memory. And Manette was a widow.

Poor Claude Cézaron! Poor, tender, kindly, visionary soul! He had lived in times when action, not idealism, was necessary. But what availed it that Manette should be free? Was Laurent de Laverdac free also?

Twice Emilie's name had risen to his lips. He had twice almost spoken it aloud since he sat down at that table. It was the habit of talking to himself that he had acquired in prison. Emilie!-suppose those brutes had guillotined her?

It was growing dark in the galleries; a waiter was placing candles on the tables of the guests. He came up behind Grégoire as the old gentleman was making his best bow, and the silhouette of his peaked profile fell distinctly on the marble table.

"Citizen Laverdac," said this pompous personage, "permit me to salute in you patient virtue, and unconquerable resolution."

His sonorous voice, the black shadow on the table, and the attempt at oratory almost amused Laverdac. A half smile played a moment on his lips. But in a moment the thought that preoccupied him, checked all merriment, and he resumed his look of gravity. "Pardon me," he said, "I did not hear your name."

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He was now indeed in a position to make all possible enquiries, and might soon obtain news of her. He might not be able to say to himself distinctly what he hoped or what he wished for in the future, but his most pressing present anxiety was to find his Emilie. Grégoire, so please you. Grégoire, What could they have done with that receveur de rentes, and a citizen devoted pretty, timid, tender little creature? to the service of humanity. He would leave nothing undone to find | Cézaron was my assistant." her; for he had at least secured some- Laverdac remembered him at once. thing by his persistent resolution. He He had heard Claude speak of Gréhad escaped Fouquier-Tinville. His name had not been inscribed upon the list of emigrés. His property had not been confiscated. These things he had just learned from his notary, who had given him a considerable sum of money. He was rich, and could be powerful.

He sipped the perfumed liquor that had been set before him, without tasting it, but as he raised it to his lips had whispered another name.

A man appeared at the door of the café. He was the same who had accosted Citizen Laverdac as in haste he made his way out of the Hall of Justice, a free man. But Laverdac had been too bewildered and confused at that moment to listen to the oration the stranger seemed disposed to make to him, and had briefly said he would be that evening in the galleries of the Palais Egalité. He had, however, wholly forgotten the rendezvous.

goire, and some one else. He said,
hardly above his breath: "Claude Cé-
zaron was he not executed?"
His wife,

"On the 3rd Pluvoise.
who loved him most tenderly, was not
able to save him. Her friends were
long in doubt if she would survive him.
But at last she has been able to leave
Paris. She quitted it soon after the
days of Thermidor, and our happy de-

Laverdac was unable to speak. He questioned his visitor by his look and manner.

"The Citoyenne Cézaron," said Grégoire, "has gone to live in her own house at Vélizy, with her uncle, Citizen Andrey.'

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Laurent said, more to himself than to Grégoire :

"She was attached to that house; she had passed a happy childhood there."

The man advanced towards him, 66 Citizen," said Grégoire, "I have holding his hat in his hand, and with something else to communicate, which

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