dying, but was yet alive, uttering dismal groans. I
tried to lift him up, but soon saw that the wounds which he had received
from bullets fired at close range were both mortal, one being in the
head, and the other in the loins. Just then a patrol, of the National
Guard turned round the corner of the street. This, instead of being a
relief, awoke me to a sense of my danger, and feeling I could do nothing
for the wounded man, for the death rattle had already begun, I entered
my house, half shut the door, and listened.

"Qui vive?" asked the corporal.

"Idiot!" said someone else, "to ask 'Qui vive?' of a dead man!"

"He is not dead," said a third voice; "listen to him singing"; and
indeed the poor fellow in his agony was giving utterance to dreadful
groans.

"Someone has tickled him well," said a fourth, "but what does it matter?
We had better finish the job."

Five or six musket shots followed, and the groans ceased.

The name of the man who had just expired was Louis Lichaire; it was
not against him, but against his nephew, that the assassins had had a
grudge, but finding the nephew out when they burst into the house, and a
victim being indispensable, they had torn the uncle from the arms of his
wife, and, dragging him towards the citadel, had killed him as I have
just related.

Very early next morning I sent to three commissioners of police, one
after the other, for permission to have the corpse carried to the
hospital, but these gentlemen were either not up or had already
gone out, so that it was not until eleven o'clock and after repeated
applications that they condescended to give me the needed authorisation.

Thanks to this delay, the whole town came to see the body of the
unfortunate man. Indeed, the day which followed a massacre was always
kept as a holiday, everyone leaving his work undone and coming out to
stare at the slaughtered victims. In this case, a man wishing to amuse
the crowd took his pipe out of his mouth and put it between the teeth
of the corpse--a joke which had a marvellous success, those present
shrieking with laughter.

Many murders had been committed during the night; the companies had
scoured the streets singing some doggerel, which one of the bloody
wretches, being in poetic vein, had composed, the chorus of which was--,

"Our work's well done,
We spare none!"

Seventeen fatal outrages were committed, and yet neither the reports of
the firearms nor the cries of the vict