and
solitary grew the streets. Not a carriage or horseman was to be seen;
scarcely a foot-passenger. All Paris had, apparently, assembled on the
"Place de la Revolution;" and the very beggars had quitted their
accustomed haunts to repair thither. Even the distant hum of the vast
multitude faded away, and it was only as the wind bore them, that I
could catch the sounds of the hoarse cries that bespoke a people's
vengeance; and now I found myself in the little silent street which once
had been my home. I stood opposite the house where we used to live,
afraid to enter it, lest I might compromise the safety of her I wished
to save, and yet longing once more to see the little chamber where we
once sat together--the chimney-corner where, in the dark nights of
winter, I nestled, with my hymn-book, and tried to learn the rhymes that
every plash of the falling hail against the windows routed; to lie down
once more in the little bed, where so often I had passed whole nights of
happy imaginings--bright thoughts of a peaceful future, that were never
to be realized!

Half-choking with my emotion, I passed on, and soon saw the green
fields, and the windmill-covered hill of Montmartre, rising above the
embankment of the Boulevards; and now the ivy-clothed wall of the
garden, within which stood the chapel of St. Blois. The gate lay ajar,
as of old, and pushing it open, I entered. Every thing was exactly as I
had left it--the same desolation and desertion every where--so much so,
that I almost fancied no human foot had crossed its dreary precincts
since last I was there. On drawing nigh to the chapel, I found the door
fast barred and barricaded, as before; but a window lay open, and on
examining it closer, I discovered the marks of a recent foot-track on
the ground and the window-sill. Could the Pere Michel have been there?
was the question that at once occurred to my mind. Had the poor priest
come to take a last look and a farewell of a spot so dear to him? It
could scarcely have been any other. There was nothing to tempt cupidity
in that humble little church; an image of the "Virgin and Child" in wax
was the only ornament of the altar. No, no; pillage had never been the
motive of him who entered here.

Thus reasoning, I climbed up to the window, and entered the chapel. As
my footsteps echoed through the silent building, I felt that sense of
awe and reverence so inseparably connected with a place of worship, and
which is ever more im