nstrous prices of bread and
sugar and coffee, candles and soap. In this calm and unruffled mood he
reached the threshold of the bakehouse. Behind him, Evariste Gamelin
could see over his head the gilt cornsheaf surmounting the iron grating
that filled the fanlight over the door.

When his turn came to enter the shop, he found the hampers and lockers
already emptied; the baker handed him the only scrap of bread left,
which did not weigh two pounds. Evariste paid his money, and the gate
was slammed on his heels, for fear of a riot and the people carrying the
place by storm.

But there was no need to fear; these poor folks, trained to obedience
alike by their old-time oppressors and by their liberators of to-day,
slunk off with drooping heads and dragging feet.

As he reached the corner of the street, Gamelin caught sight of the
_citoyenne_ Dumonteil, seated on a stone post, her nursling in her
arms. She sat there quite still; her face was colourless and her
tearless eyes seemed to see nothing. The infant was sucking her finger
voraciously. Gamelin stood a while in front of her, abashed and
uncertain what to do. She did not appear to see him.

He stammered something, then pulled out his pocket-knife, a clasp-knife
with a horn handle, cut his loaf in two and laid half on the young
mother's knee. She looked up at him in wonder; but he had already turned
the corner of the street.

On reaching home, Evariste found his mother sitting at the window
darning stockings. With a light laugh he put his half of the bread in
her hand.

"You must forgive me, mother dear; I was tired out with standing about
and exhausted by the heat, and out in the street there as I trudged
home, mouthful by mouthful I have gobbled up half of our allowance.
There's barely your share left,"--and as he spoke, he made a pretence of
shaking the crumbs off his jacket.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Chambre Ardente_,--under the ancien regime, a tribunal charged with
the investigation of heinous crimes and having power to burn those found
guilty.

VII

Employing a very old-fashioned locution, the _citoyenne_ Gamelin had
declared: "that by dint of eating chestnuts they would be turning into
chestnuts." As a matter of fact, on that day, the 13th July, she and her
son had made their midday dinner on a basin of chestnut porridge. As
they were finishing this austere repast, a lady pushed open the door and
the room was flooded in an instant with the splendour