Our journey was a dreary and wearisome one. The diligence travelled slowly, and as the weather was dull and rainy, the road presented nothing of interest, at least of interest sufficient to combat the grief that still oppressed me. We were upwards of a week travelling before we reached Paris, which I own presented a very different aspect from what my ardent imagination had depicted. The narrow streets were scarcely lighted,—it was night,—the houses seemed poor and mean and dilapidated, the inhabitants rude-looking and ill-dressed. The women especially were ill-favored, and with an air of savage daring and effrontery I had never seen before. Gangs of both sexes patrolled the streets, shouting in wild chorus some popular chant of the time; and as the diligence did not venture to pierce these crowds, we were frequently delayed in our progress to the “bureau,” which was held in the Rue Didier of the Battignolles; for it was in that unfashionable quarter in which my first impressions of the capital were conceived.

“Remember, boy, I am no longer a Count here,” said my companion, as we got out of the conveyance, “I am the citizen Gabriac; and be careful that you never forget it. Take that portmanteau on your shoulder, and follow me!”

We treaded a vast number of streets and alleys, all alike wretched and gloomy, till we entered a little “Place” which formed a “cul de sac” at the end of a narrow lane, and was lighted by a single lantern, suspended from a pole in the centre. This was called the Place de Trieze, in memory, as I afterwards learned, of thirteen assassins who had once lived there, and been for years the terror of the capital. It was now but scantily tenanted, none of the rooms on the ground-floor being inhabited at all; and in some instances an entire house having but one or two occupants. The superstitious terrors that were rife about it (and there were abundance of ghost stories in vogue) could scarcely account for this desertion, for assuredly the fears of a spiritual world could not have proved formidable to the class who frequented it; but an impression had got abroad that it was a favorite resort of the spies of the police, who often tracked the victims to this quarter, or at least here obtained information of their whereabouts. Plague itself would have been a preferable reputation to such a report, and accordingly few but the very poorest and most destitute would accept the shelter of this ill-omened spot.

A single light, twinkling like a faint star, showed through the gloom as we entered, where some watcher yet sat; but all the rest of the “Place” was in darkness. Gabriac threw some light gravel at the window, which was immediately opened, and a head enveloped in a kerchief, by way of nightcap, appeared.

“It is I, Pierre,” cried he; “come down and unbar the door!”

“Ma foi,” said the other, “that is unnecessary. The commissaire broke it down yesterday, searching for 'Torchon,' and the last fragment cooked my dinner to-day.”

“And Torchon, did they catch him?”

“No, he escaped, but only to reach the Pont Neuf, where he threw himself over the balustrade into the river.”

“And was drowned?”

“Doubtless, he was.”

“I scarcely regret him,” said Gabriac.

“And I not at all,” replied the other. “Good night;” and with this he closed the window, leaving us to find our way as best we could.

I followed Gabriac as he slowly groped his way up the stairs and reached a door on the third story, of which he produced the key. He struck a light as he passed in, and lighted a small lamp, by which I was enabled to see the details of a chamber poorer and more miserable than anything I had ever conceived. A board laid upon two chairs served for a table, and some wood-shavings, partially covered by a blanket, formed a bed; a couple of earthenware pipkins comprised the cooking utensils, and a leaden basin supplied the provisions for the toilet.

“Lie down there and take a sleep, Jasper, for I have no supper for you,” said Gabriac; but his voice had a touch of compassionate gentleness in it which I heard for the first time.

“And you, sir,” said I, “have you no bed?”

“I have no need of one. I have occupation that will not admit of sleep,” said he. “And now, boy, once for all, never question me, nor ask the reasons of what may seem strange or odd to you. Your own faculties must explain whatever requires explaining—or else you must remain in ignorance;” and with these words he passed into an inner chamber, from which he speedily issued forth to descend the stairs into the street, leaving me alone to my slumbers. And they were heavy and dreamless ones, for I was thoroughly wearied and worn out by the road.

I was still asleep, and so soundly that I resisted all efforts to awake me till a strong shake effectually succeeded, and, on looking up, I saw Gabriac standing by my side.

“Get up, boy, and dress. These are your clothes,” said he, pointing to a uniform of dark green and black, with a sword-belt of black leather, from which hung a short, broad-bladed weapon. The dress was without any richness, still a becoming one, and I put it on without reluctance.

“Am I to be a soldier, then?” asked I, in half shame at disobeying his injunction of the night before.

“All Paris, all France, is arrayed at one side or the other just now, Jasper,” said he, as he busied himself in the preparation of our coffee. “The men who have ruled the nation by the guillotine have exhausted its patience at last. A spirit, if not of resistance, of at least self-defence, has arisen, and the little that remains of birth and blood amongst us has associated with the remnant of property to crush the hell-hounds that live by carnage. One of these bands is called the battalion of 'La Jeunesse DorÉe,' and into this I have obtained your admission. Meanwhile, you will be attached to the staff of General Danitan, who will employ you in the 'secrÉtariat' of his command. Remember, boy, your tale is, you are the son of parents that have died on the scaffold. You are the nephew of Emile de Gabriac, brother of Jules Louis de Gabriac, your father, whom you cannot remember. Your life in Switzerland you can speak of with safety. You will not talk of these matters save to the General, and to him only if questioned about them.”

“But is this disguise necessary, sir? May I not assume the name I have a right to, and accept the fate that would follow it?”

“The guillotine,” added he, sarcastically. “Are you so ignorant, child, as not to know that England and France are at war, and that your nationality would be your condemnation? Follow my guidance or your own,” said he, sternly, “but do not seek to weld the counsels together.”

“But may I not know in what service I am enrolled?”

“Later on, when you can understand it,” was the cold reply.

“I am not so ignorant,” said I, taking courage, “as not to be aware of what has happened of late years in France. I know that the king has been executed.”

“Murdered!—martyred!” broke in Gabriac.

“And monarchy abolished.”

“Suspended—interrupted,” added he, in the same voice. “But I will not discuss these matters with you. When you have eaten your breakfast, take that letter to the address in the Rue Lepelletier, see the General, and speak with him. As you go along the streets you will not fail to meet many of those to whom your duty will at some later period place you in opposition. If they by look, by dress, by bearing and manner captivate your imagination and seduce your allegiance to their ranks, tear off your colors then, and join them, boy; the choice is open to you. My charge is then ended; we are not, nor ever can be, aught to each other again.”

I saw that he would not be questioned by me, and, forbearing at once, from the risk of offending him, I ate my meal in silence.

“I am ready now, sir,” said I, standing up in front of him.

He wheeled me round by the arm to look at me in my new dress. He adjusted my belt, and arranged my sword-knot more becomingly, muttering to himself a few words of approval at my appearance, and then said aloud,—

“Salute all whom you see in this uniform, boy, and bear yourself haughtily as you pass the 'canaille.' Remember that between you and them must be the struggle at last, and show that you do not blink it.”

He patted me good-naturedly on the shoulder as he said this, and, with the word “Go,” half-pushed me from the room.

I soon found myself in the open air, and, having inquired my way to the Rue Lepelletier, walked rapidly along, endeavoring, as best I might, to disguise the astonishment I felt at so many new and wonderful objects. As I emerged from the meaner quarter of the Battignolles, the streets grew finer and more spacious, and the dress of the people and their appearance generally improved also. Still, there was none of that splendor of equipage of which I had heard so much. The carriages were few, and neither rich nor well-appointed. The horses were poor-looking, and seemed all over-worked and exhausted. The same tired and worn-out air pervaded the people too. They all looked as though fatigue and excitement had finally conquered them, and that they were no longer capable of endurance. At the bakers' shops that I passed, great crowds were assembled, waiting for the distribution of bread which the Government each morning doled out to the population. I watched these, and saw, to my amazement, that the ration was a small piece of black and coarse bread, weighing two ounces, and for this many were content to wait patiently the entire day. In my curiosity to see this, I had approached an old man of a strong, athletic appearance, who, leaning on his staff, made no effort to pierce the crowd, but waited calmly till his name was called aloud, and even then received his pittance as it was passed to him from hand to hand. There was something of dignity in the way he subdued every trace of that anxious impatience so perceptible around him, and I drew nigh to speak to him, with a sense of respect.

“Is that meant for a day's subsistence?” asked I.

He stared at me calmly for a few seconds, but made no reply.

“I asked the question,” began I, with an attempt to apologize, when he interrupted me thus:—

“Are you one of the Troupe DorÉe, and ask this? Is it from you, who live in fine houses and eat sumptuously, that comes the inquiry, how men like me exist?”

“I am newly come to Paris; I am only a few hours here.”

“See here, comrades,” cried the old man, in a loud and ringing voice to the crowd, “mark what the 'Sections' are doing: drafting the peasants from the Provinces, dressing them in their livery, and arming them to slaughter us. Starvation marches too slowly for the wishes of these aristocrats!”

“Down with the 'aristos,' down with the 'Troupe!'” broke in one wild yell from the multitude, who turned at once towards me with looks of menace.

“Ay,” continued the old man, waving his hand to maintain silence, “he dared to taunt me with the pittance we receive, and to scoff at our mendicancy!”

“Down with him! down with him!” cried the crowd; but, interposing his staff like a barrier against the mob, the old fellow said,—

“Spare him, comrades; he is, as you see, only a boy; let him live to be wiser and better. Come, lad, break that sword upon your knee, tear off that green cockade, and go back to your village again!”

I stepped back, and, drawing my sword, motioned to those in front to give way.

“I'll cut down the first that opposes me!” cried I, with a wave of the steel round my head; and at the same instant I dashed forward.

The mass fell back, and left me a free passage, while a chorus of the wildest yells and screams burst around and about me. Mad with the excitement of the moment, I shook my sword at them as I went, in defiance, and even laughed my scorn of their cowardice. My triumph was brief; a stunning blow on the back of the head sent me reeling forwards, and at the same instant the ranks of the mob closed in, and, hurling me to the ground, trampled and jumped upon me. Stunned, but not unconscious, I could perceive that a battle was waged over me, in which my own fate was forgotten, for the multitude passed and repassed my body without inflicting other injury than their foot-treads. Even this was brief, too, and I was speedily raised from the earth, and saw myself in the arms of two young men in uniform like my own. One of them was bleeding from a wound in the temple, but seemed only to think of me and my injuries. We were soon joined by several others of the troop, who, having returned from a pursuit of the mob, now pressed around me with kindest questions and inquiries. My name, whence I came, and how long I had been in Paris, were all asked of me in a breath; while others, more considerate still, sought to ascertain if I had been wounded in the late scuffle. Except in some bruises, and even those not severe, I had suffered nothing; and when my clothes were brushed, and shako readjusted, and a new cockade affixed to it, I was as well as ever. From the kind attentions we met with in the shops, and the sympathy which the better-dressed people displayed towards us, I soon gathered that the conflict was indeed one between two classes of the population, and that the Troupe were the champions of property.

“Show him the Rue Lepelletier, Guillaume,” said an officer to one of the youths; and a boy somewhat older than myself now undertook to be my guide.

I had some difficulty in answering his questions as to the names and the number of my family who were guillotined, and when and where the execution had occurred; but I was spared any excessive strain on my imagination by the palpable indifference my companion exhibited to a theme now monstrously tiresome. He, however, was communicative enough on the subject of the Troupe and their duties, which he told me were daily becoming more onerous. The Government, harassed by the opposition of the National Guards and the Jeunesse DorÉe together, had resorted to the terrible expedient of releasing above a thousand prisoners from the galleys; and these, he assured me, were now on their way to Paris, to be armed and formed into a regiment.

Though he told this with a natural horror, he still spoke of his own party with every confidence. They comprised, he said, the courage, the property, and the loyalty of France. The whole nation looked to them as the last stay and succor, and felt that the hope of the country was in their keeping.

I asked him what was the number now enrolled in the Troupe? and, to my astonishment, he could not tell me. In fact, he owned that many had of late assumed the uniform as spies, and General Danitan had resolved that each volunteer should present himself to him for acceptance before receiving any charge, or being appointed to any guard.

I had not time for further questioning, when we arrived at the hÔtel of the general, when my companion, having given me full directions for my guidance, shook my hand cordially, and departed.

As I ascended the stairs I overtook an elderly gentleman in a gray military frock, who was slowly making his way upwards by the aid of the balustrade.

“Give me your arm, lad,” said he, “for this stair seems to grow steeper every day. Thanks; now I shall get on better. What has torn your coat-sleeve?”

I told him in a few words what had just occurred in the streets, and he listened to me with a degree of interest that somewhat surprised me.

“Come along, my lad. Let General Danitan hear this from your own lips;” and with an agility that I could not have believed him capable of, he hurried up the stairs, and, crossing a kind of gallery crowded with officers of different grades, he entered a chamber where two persons in military undress were writing.

“Can I see the general, FranÇois?” said he, abruptly.

The officer thus addressed, coolly replied that he believed not, and went on with his writing as before.

“But I have something important to say to him,—my business is of consequence,” said he.

“As it always is,” muttered the other, in a tone of sarcasm that fortunately was only overheard by myself.

“You will announce me, then, FranÇois?” continued he.

“My orders are not to admit any one, Captain.”

“They were never meant to include me, sir,—of that I 'm positive,” said the old man; “and if you will not announce me, I will enter without it;” and, half dragging me by the arm, he moved forward, opened the door, and passed into an inner room.

General Danitan, a small, dark-eyed, severe-looking man, was standing with his back to the fire, and in the act of dictating to a secretary, as we entered. An expression of angry impatience at our unauthorized appearance was the only return he vouchsafed to our salute; and he continued his dictation, as before.

“Don't interrupt me, sir,” said he, hastily, as the old captain made an effort to address him. “Don't interrupt me, sir.—'Which difficulties,'” continued he, as he took up the thread of his dictation,—“'which difficulties are considerably increased by the obtrusive habit of tendering advice by persons in whose judgment I place no reliance, and whose conduct, when they leave me, is open to the suspicion of being prejudicial to the public service. Amongst such offenders the chief is a retired captain of the 8th regiment of Chasseurs, called Hugues Le Bart—'”

“Why, General, it is of me—me myself—you are speaking!” broke in the captain.

“'An officer,'” continued the other, perfectly heedless of the interruption, “'into whose past services I would strenuously recommend some inquiry; since neither from the information which has reached me with regard to his habits, nor from the characters of his intimates, am I disposed to regard him as well affected to the Government, or in other respects trustworthy.' How do you do, Captain? Who is our young friend here?” continued he, with a smile and a bow towards us.

“In what way am I to understand this, General? Is it meant for a piece of coarse pleasantry—”

“For nothing of the kind, sir,” interrupted the other, sternly. “That you have been a witness to the words of a confidential communication is entirely attributable to yourself; and I have only to hope you will respect the confidence of which an accident has made you a participator. Meanwhile, I desire to be alone.”

The manner in which these words were uttered was too decisive for hesitation, and the old man bowed submissively and withdrew. As I was about to follow him, the general called out,—

“Stay: a word with you. Are you the captain's protÉgÉ, boy?”

I told him that our first meeting only dated a few moments back, and how it had occurred.

“Then you are not of the 'Troupe'? You have never worn the uniform till this morning?” said he, somewhat severely.

I bowed assent.

He turned hastily about at the moment, and said something to his secretary in a low voice, of which I just could catch the concluding words, which were far from flattering to the corps in whose livery I was dressed.

“Well, boy, go back and take off those clothes,” said he, sternly; “resume your trade or occupation, whatever it be, and leave politics and state affairs to those who can understand them. Tell your father—”

“I have none, sir.”

“Your mother, then, or your friends, I care not what they be. What letter is that you are crumpling in your fingers?” broke he in, suddenly.

“To General Danitan, sir.”

“Give it me,” said he, half snatching it from me.

He tore it hastily open and read it, occasionally looking from the paper to myself, as he went on. He then leaned over the table where the secretary sat, and, showed him the letter. They conversed eagerly for some seconds together, and then the general said,—

“Your friends have recommended you for a post in the 'chancellerie militaire': is that your liking, lad?”

“I should be proud to think myself capable of doing anything for my own support,” was my answer.

“D'Artans, see to him; let him be enrolled as a supernumerary, and lodged with the others.—This gentleman will instruct you in your duty,” added he to me, while, with a slight nod towards the door, he motioned me to withdraw.

I retired at once to the antechamber, where I sat down to think over my future prospects, and canvass in my mind my strange situation.

Troops of officers in full and half dress, orderlies with despatches, aides-de-camp in hot haste, came and went through that room for hours; and yet there I sat, unnoticed and unrecognized by any, till I began to feel in my isolation a sense of desertion and loneliness I had never known before.

It was already evening when D'Artans joined me, and taking my arm familiarly within his own, said,—

“Come along, Jasper, and let us dine together.”

The sound of my own name so overcame me that I could scarcely restrain my tears as I heard it. It was a memory of home and the past too touching to be resisted!