ould have had no guests here
to-night. We could have had a quiet evening together, and I could have
shown you over my new establishment. All this must wait, however, and
now you had best go to your room and dress for supper." But Mr. Calvert,
begging to be excused from the company that evening, and saying that he
would go out by himself and get a look at this changed Paris, left Mr.
Morris to entertain his guests, who were beginning to arrive.

"I would offer you my carriage," said Mr. Morris, as the young man
turned away, "but 'twere best you walked abroad. Carriages are but
little the fashion these days--they are being rapidly abolished along
with everything else that makes life comfortable in this city."

Mr. Calvert went out into the dimly lit street that, despite the hour,
was full of a restless throng of people, who seemed to be wandering
about as aimlessly as himself. Here and there he encountered squads of
the National Guard being manoeuvred by their lieutenants, here and there
mobs of ragged men, shouting and cursing and bearing torches which
rained sparks of fire as they were swung aloft, and once, as he passed
the Abbaie St. Germain des Pres, a horrible throng pressed by him,
holding high in their midst a head on a dripping pike. He turned away,
sick at the sight, and, making his way down by the quays, crossed by the
Pont Royal to the other side of the city. He stopped for an instant on
the bridge to look down the river, and, as he did so, he recalled that
Christmas Eve two years before when he and Mr. Morris had stood on that
same spot. Much, very much, had happened since; it seemed as if both a
long and a short time had elapsed; perhaps, the greatest difference he
felt was that then he had been eager to leave Paris; now he was relieved
to be back. He strolled along under the glittering stars and the
fast-sailing clouds, through ill-lighted streets and past deserted
mansions whose owners were in voluntary exile beyond the Rhine, until he
suddenly bethought himself of a little cafe in the Champs Elysees not
far from the Demi-Lune du Cours de la Reine, where he and Mr. Jefferson
and Mr. Morris had often gone together. It occurred to him that he was
both thirsty and a little tired, and that he would turn in there for
something to drink and to see what might be happening.

Not much was happening, for a wonder. The gusty March wind, sweeping
through the gardens and under the lighted arcades, seemed to have swept