sians; and still fewer no matter what their birthplace, the men whom
we call vain--the men who over-much covet distinction, and over-much
dread reproach.

"Why should I descend at your summons?" said Rameau, haughtily. "Bah!
Coachman, drive on!"

The rough-looking man opened the door, and silently extended a hand to
Rameau, saying gently: "Take my advice, mon bourgeois. Get out--we want
your carriage. It is a day of barricades--every little helps, even your
coupe!"

While this man spoke others gesticulated; some shrieked out, "He is an
employer! he thinks he can drive over the employed!"

Some leader of the crowd--a Parisian crowd always has a classical
leader, who has never read the classics--thundered forth,
"Tarquin's car! Down with Tarquin!" Therewith came a yell, "A la
lanterne--Tarquin!"

We Anglo-Saxons, of the old country or the new, are not familiarised
to the dread roar of a populace delighted to have a Roman authority for
tearing us to pieces; still Americans know what is Lynch law. Rameau
was in danger of Lynch law, when suddenly a face not unknown to him
interposed between himself and the rough-looking man.

"Ha!" cried this new comer, "my young confrere, Gustave Rameau, welcome!
Citizens, make way. I answer for this patriot--I, Armand Monnier. He
comes to help use! Is this the way you receive him?" Then in a low voice
to Rameau, "Come out. Give your coupe to the barricade. What matters
such rubbish? Trust to me--I expected you. Hist!--Lebeau bids me
see that you are safe." Rameau then, seeking to drape himself in
majesty,--as the aristocrats of journalism in a city wherein no other
aristocracy is recognised naturally and commendably do, when ignorance
combined with physical strength asserts itself to be a power,
beside which the power of knowledge is what a learned poodle is to a
tiger--Rameau then descended from his coupe, and said to this Titan of
labour, as a French marquis might have said to his valet, and as, when
the French marquis has become a ghost of the past, the man who keeps
a coupe says to the man who mends its wheels, "Honest fellow, I trust
you."

Monnier led the journalist through the mob to the rear of the barricade
hastily constructed. Here were assembled very motley groups.

The majority were ragged boys, the gamins of Paris, commingled with
several women of no reputable appearance, some dingily, some gaudily
apparelled. The crowd did not appear as if the business in hand was a