It was the year of grace 1792, thirteen years after the events related in the last chapter.

It was the 2nd of September, and Sunday, a day of rest and peace in all Christian countries, and even more in gay, beautiful France--a day of festivity and merriment.

This Sunday, however, seemed rather an exception to the general rule.

There were no gay groups or bannered processions; the typical incense and the public devotion of which it is the symbol were alike wanting; the streets in some places seemed deserted, and in others there was an ominous crowd, and the dreary silence was now and then broken by a distant sound of yells and cries, that struck terror into the hearts of the Parisians.
It was a deserted bye-street, overlooked by some shut-up warehouses, and from the cellar of one of these a young man crept up on to the pathway.

His dress had once been beautiful, but it was torn and soiled; his face was beautiful still, but it was marred by the hideous eagerness of a face on which famine has laid her hand--he was starving.