ctacular play, such as
we were in the habit of seeing at Franconi's. The civic warriors were
ostensibly bivouacking on the Boulevard St. Martin; they stacked their
muskets and fraternized with the crowd; it would not have surprised us
in the least to see a troupe of ballet dancers advance into our midst
and give us the entertainment de rigueur--the intermede. It was the only
thing wanting to complete the picture, from which even the low comedy
incident was not wanting. An old woebegone creature, evidently the worse
for liquor, had fallen down while a patrol of regulars was passing. He
was not a bit hurt; but there and then the rabble proposed to carry him
to the Hotel de Ville, and to give him an apotheosis as a martyr to the
cause. They had already fetched a stretcher, and were, notwithstanding
his violent struggles, hoisting him on it, when prevented by the captain
of the National Guards.

Still, we returned next day to the Cafe Gregoire. In the middle of the
place there lay an old man--that one, stark dead, who had been fired
upon without rhyme or reason by a picket of the National Guards. It was
only about eleven o'clock, and those valiant defenders of public order
were still resting from their fatigue--at any rate, there were few of
them about. There was a discussion going on whether they should go out
or not--a discussion confined to the captain, two lieutenants, and as
many sub-lieutenants. They appeared not to have the least idea of the
necessity to refer for orders to the colonel or the head-quarters of the
regiment or the legion, as it was called. They meant to settle the
matter among themselves. The great argument in favour of calling out the
men was that one of them, while standing at his window that very
morning, was fired at by a passing ragamuffin, who, instead of hitting
him, shattered his windowpanes.

"Well," said one of the lieutenants, who had been opposed to the calling
out of the men, "then we are quits after all; for look at the old fellow
lying out there."

"No, we are not," retorts the captain; "for he was shot by a mistake, so
he doesn't count."

"L'esprit ne perd jamais ses droits en France;" so, in another moment or
two, the bugle sounded lustily throughout the quarter. We followed the
buglers for a little while, it being still too early for our breakfast,
and consequently enjoyed the felicity of seeing a good many of the
warriors "in their habit as they lived" indoors--namely, in
dressi