Eusebe, absorbed in his reflections, walked nearly two hours, gazing to the right and left, without seeing any thing. Finally, he found himself, by accident, on the Place de la Bastille. Great was his astonishment when his eyes rested on the July Column. He could not imagine the utility of this immense tower of bronze. He would gladly have asked some questions of the passers-by, but his former experience deterred him. He approached the column and examined the inscriptions minutely.

“This is very singular,” thought he. “Here is a monument erected to the memory of citizens who died for liberty. Is it possible that in 1830, at so recent a period, there were in France, the centre of civilization, persons who were opposed to liberty? This would seem to me improbable, if it were not engraved here. Are there, too, those who are so abandoned as to think of depriving us of our liberty, the greatest of blessings? This was a remarkable event, about which I shall know more so soon as I am able to read the historians of that period.”

Hunger put a stop to Eusebe’s reflections on the liberties of the people. He walked on, glancing eagerly about, and hoping to see a signboard swinging in the wind and bearing that fallacious legend, “Here they give something to eat and drink,” such as he had seen on the rural roads. He had commenced to despair of finding what he sought, however, when the magic word “dinner” greeted his eyes. On closer inspection of the establishment where this promise was held out, he read,—

Restaurant Brochons.

DÎners À 2 francs; dÉjeuners À 1 franc 25.

Eusebe fairly sprang towards the door, but entered the place in a humble manner, and took a seat at the table nearest to the window, so that he might satisfy at the same time his stomach and his curiosity.

“What will you have, monsieur?” inquired a waiter.

“Whatever you please,” replied Eusebe. “Having been raised in the country, I am not difficult to please.”

“After the soup, will monsieur have a beefsteak?”

“As it pleases you.”

“Oh, it is all the same to me. Would you prefer a kidney?”

“I have no preference.”

“A calf’s liver?”

“It is a matter of indifference to me.”

“To me also. We have, besides, cutlets, collops, fricasseed chicken, rabbits, partridges, roast chicken, mutton——”

Eusebe caught the word cutlets, as the waiter ran rapidly through the bill of fare, and eagerly interrupted him with,—

“Give me a cutlet.”

“How will you have it?” And the waiter again went into a catalogue of which Eusebe understood only the word “broiled.”

“I will have it broiled,” he exclaimed.

“Cutlet broiled! One!” exclaimed the waiter to the cook.

“Here is a queer servant,” said the young provincial, solus. Having obtained the cutlet, he devoted himself to it with an appetite sharpened by abstinence and exercise. After the dish had been finished, the waiter again began to run over his bill of fare; but Eusebe interrupted him with,—

“Give me another cutlet.”

“Would you not prefer fish of some kind,—salmon, river trout, or——”

“I prefer another cutlet.”

“Very well, monsieur. Chef, another cutlet—one!”

“The chef of this establishment is certainly deaf,” thought Eusebe; “and that is a disagreeable infirmity both for himself and for other people.”

After the second cutlet, Eusebe demanded a third, and then a piece of cheese. While he was eating his last piece of bread and drinking a glass of water, there was a sudden commotion in the room, and several persons ran to the windows. The provincial thought something extraordinary was in progress, and was all eyes and ears for the time. He could see nothing, at first, but the usual throng of vehicles and pedestrians. Then a tightly closed wagon, escorted by four gendarmes, attracted his attention. The wagon passed on; the persons in the restaurant returned to their seats, and the conversation became animated.

“It is unfortunate, beyond doubt,” said a large man with a white cravat, “but we cannot punish too severely those who are trying to bring about anarchy and disorder.”

“Poor fellows!” said a young woman: “they have sisters and mothers who weep for them.”

“Yes, and mistresses too,” added a man whose features were marked by the ravages of the smallpox.

The young woman turned towards the speaker, and, after looking at him fixedly, responded,—

“Yes, monsieur, they have mistresses.”

“Poor fellows! they may never see their country again.”

“Life is long.”

“While they live there is hope.”

Eusebe was exceedingly curious. He did not comprehend a word of this conversation, and dared not question anybody. His neighbor, however, a man of rough and swarthy aspect, came to his relief, saying,—

“These people indulge in very absurd reflections.”

“I know not what they have said,” responded the provincial.

“They alluded to the men who have just passed: they are condemned to transportation.”

“May I venture to ask what they mean by transportation?”

“Sending men into exile.”

“For what reason?”

“Because they wished to fight for liberty,” whispered the swarthy man, who then took his hat, and, casting a glance of defiance at the throng, departed.

Eusebe followed. As he passed out of the door, he heard the waiter exclaim,—

“There goes a verdant one.”

Eusebe thought this was intended as an insult, but he was not sure of the sense of the term verdant, and, therefore, gave himself no trouble about it. He took a seat on one of the benches of the Boulevard du Temple, and seemed absorbed in reflection. What he thought, it is impossible for us to say; but when he arose, he might have been heard to murmur,—

“They raise monuments to the memory of citizens who have died for liberty, and they banish others who wish to fight for it. This does not appear consistent,—unless there are two kinds of liberty, one good and the other bad.”