's grotto, a gothic chapel with a bell, a temple, a
torrent.

"There," she said, pointing to a clump of firs, "I should like to raise
a cenotaph to the memory of the unfortunate Brotteaux des Ilettes. I was
not indifferent to him; he was a lovable man. The monsters slaughtered
him; I bewailed his fate. Desmahis, you shall design me an urn on a
column."

Then she added almost without a pause:

"It is heart-breaking.... I wanted to give a ball this week; but all the
fiddles are engaged three weeks in advance. There is dancing every night
at the _citoyenne_ Tallien's."

After dinner Mademoiselle Thevenin's carriage took the three friends and
Desmahis to the Theatre Feydeau. All that was most elegant in Paris was
gathered in the house--the women with hair dressed _a l'antique_ or _a
la victime_, in very low dresses, purple or white and spangled with
gold, the men wearing very tall black collars and the chin disappearing
in enormous white cravats.

The bill announced _Phedre_ and the _Chien du Jardinier_,--The
Gardener's Dog. With one voice the audience demanded the hymn dear to
the _muscadins_ and the gilded youth, the _Reveil du peuple_,--The
Awakening of the People.

The curtain rose and a little man, short and fat, took the stage; it was
the celebrated Lays. He sang in his fine tenor voice:

_Peuple francais, peuple de freres!..._

Such storms of applause broke out as set the lustres of the chandelier
jingling. Then some murmurs made themselves heard, and the voice of a
citizen in a round hat answered from the pit with the hymn of the
Marseillaise:

_Allons, enfants de la patrie...._

The voice was drowned by howls, and shouts were raised:

"Down with the Terrorists! Death to the Jacobins!"

Lays was recalled and sang a second time over the hymn of the
Thermidorians.

_Peuple francais, peuple de freres!..._

In every play-house was to be seen the bust of Marat, surmounting a
column or raised on a pedestal; at the Theatre Feydeau this bust stood
on a dwarf pillar on the "prompt" side, against the masonry-framing in
the stage.

While the orchestra was playing the Overture of _Phedre et Hippolyte_, a
young _Muscadin_, pointing his cane at the bust, shouted:

"Down with Marat!"--and the whole house took up the cry: "Down with
Marat! Down with Marat!"

Urgent voices rose above the uproar:

"It is a black shame that bust should still be there!"

"The infamous Marat lords it everywhere, to our dishonou