very serious one. Amidst the din of voices the sounds of laughter rose
predominant, jests and bon mots flew from lip to lip. The astonishing
good-humour of the Parisians was not yet excited into the ferocity that
grows out of it by a street contest. It was less like a popular emeute
than a gathering of schoolboys, bent not less on fun than on mischief.
But, still, amid this gayer crowd were sinister, lowering faces; the
fiercest were not those of the very poor, but rather of artisans, who,
to judge by their dress, seemed well off of men belonging to yet higher
grades. Rameau distinguished amongst these the medecin des pauvres, the
philosophical atheist, sundry young, long-haired artists, middle aged
writers for the Republican press, in close neighbourhood with ruffians
of villainous aspect, who might have been newly returned from the
galleys. None were regularly armed; still revolvers and muskets and long
knives were by no means unfrequently interspersed among the rioters. The
whole scene was to Rameau a confused panorama, and the dissonant tumult
of yells and laughter, of menace and joke, began rapidly to act on his
impressionable nerves. He felt that which is the prevalent character of
a Parisian riot--the intoxication of an impulsive sympathy; coming there
as a reluctant spectator, if action commenced he would have been borne
readily into the thick of the action--he could not have helped it;
already he grew impatient of the suspense of strife. Monnier having
deposited him safely with his back to a wall, at the corner of a street
handy for flight, if flight became expedient, had left him for several
minutes, having business elsewhere. Suddenly the whisper of the Italian
stole into his ear--"These men are fools. This is not the way to do
business; this does not hurt the robber of Nice--Garibaldi's Nice: they
should have left it to me."

"What would you do?"

"I have invented a new machine," whispered the Friend of humanity; "it
would remove all at one blow--lion and lioness, whelp and jackals--and
then the Revolution if you will! not this paltry tumult. The cause of
the human race is being frittered away. I am disgusted with Lebeau.
Thrones are not overturned by gamins."

Before Rameau could answer, Monnier rejoined him. The artisan's face
was overcast--his lips compressed, yet quivering with indignation.
"Brother," he said to Rameau, "to-day the cause is betrayed"--(the word
trahi was just then coming into vogue a