ad opened
at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight.

In past days there had been, said history, an awful crisis in the fate
of Labassecour, involving I know not what peril to the rights and
liberties of her gallant citizens. Rumours of wars there had been, if
not wars themselves; a kind of struggling in the streets--a bustle--a
running to and fro, some rearing of barricades, some burgher-rioting,
some calling out of troops, much interchange of brickbats, and even a
little of shot. Tradition held that patriots had fallen: in the old
Basse-Ville was shown an enclosure, solemnly built in and set apart,
holding, it was said, the sacred bones of martyrs. Be this as it may, a
certain day in the year was still kept as a festival in honour of the
said patriots and martyrs of somewhat apocryphal memory--the morning
being given to a solemn Te Deum in St. Jean Baptiste, the evening
devoted to spectacles, decorations, and illuminations, such as these I
now saw.

While looking up at the image of a white ibis, fixed on a column--while
fathoming the deep, torch-lit perspective of an avenue, at the close of
which was couched a sphinx--I lost sight of the party which, from the
middle of the great square, I had followed--or, rather, they vanished
like a group of apparitions. On this whole scene was impressed a
dream-like character: every shape was wavering, every movement
floating, every voice echo-like--half-mocking, half-uncertain. Paulina
and her friends being gone, I scarce could avouch that I had really
seen them; nor did I miss them as guides through the chaos, far less
regret them as protectors amidst the night.

That festal night would have been safe for a very child. Half the
peasantry had come in from the outlying environs of Villette, and the
decent burghers were all abroad and around, dressed in their best. My
straw-hat passed amidst cap and jacket, short petticoat, and long
calico mantle, without, perhaps, attracting a glance; I only took the
precaution to bind down the broad leaf gipsy-wise, with a supplementary
ribbon--and then I felt safe as if masked.

Safe I passed down the avenues--safe I mixed with the crowd where it
was deepest. To be still was not in my power, nor quietly to observe. I
took a revel of the scene; I drank the elastic night-air--the swell of
sound, the dubious light, now flashing, now fading. As to Happiness or
Hope, they and I had shaken hands, but just now--I scorned Despa