p, and sprung into the carriage. In doing so, a pocket-book fell from
his pocket. I took it up, but as I did so, the carriage was already
away, and far beyond my power to overtake it.

Without stopping to examine my prize, or hesitating for a second, I
entered the _restaurant_, and asked for M. Boivin.

"Give your orders to me, boy," said a man busily at work behind the
counter.

"My business is with himself," said I, stoutly.

"Then you'll have to wait with some patience," said he, sneeringly.

"I can do so," was my answer, and I sat down in the shop.

I might have been half-an-hour thus seated, when an enormously fat man,
with a huge "_bonnet rouge_" on his head, entered from an inner room,
and, passing close to where I was, caught sight of me.

"Who are you, sirrah--what brings you here?"

"I want to speak with M. Boivin."

"Then speak," said he, placing his hand upon his immense chest.

"It must be alone," said I.

"How so, alone, sirrah?" said he, growing suddenly pale; "I have no
secrets--I know of nothing that may not be told before all the world."

Though he said this in a kind of appeal to all around, the dubious looks
and glances interchanged seemed to make him far from comfortable.

"So you refuse me, then," said I, taking up my cap, and preparing to
depart.

"Come hither," said he, leading the way into the room from which he had
emerged. It was a very small chamber; the most conspicuous ornaments of
which were busts and pictures of the various celebrities of the
revolution. Some of these latter were framed ostentatiously, and one,
occupying the post of honor above the chimney, at once attracted me, for
in a glance I saw that it was a portrait of him who owned the
pocket-book, and bore beneath it the name "Robespierre."

"Now, sir, for your communication," said Boivin; "and take care that it
is of sufficient importance to warrant the interview you have asked
for."

"I have no fears on that score," said I, calmly, still scanning the
features of the portrait, and satisfying myself of their identity.

"Look at me, sir, and not at that picture," said Boivin.

"And yet it is of M. Robespierre I have to speak," said I, coolly.

"How so--of M. Robespierre, boy? What is the meaning of this? If it be a
snare--if this be a trick, you never leave this spot living," cried he,
as he placed a massive hand on each of my shoulders, and shook me
violently.

"I am not so easily to be terrified, Citoyen,