"VIVE LA GUILLOTINE!" It was midnight when I got clear of the Auberge "a l'Irlandois" in the Rue d'Agnes, and being a fine, warm autumn night I was by no means the only occupant of the street.

This was fortunate for me, for the guards posted at either end would have been more inquisitive as to a solitary stranger than one of a company of noisy idlers.
That night there had been a great performance in one of the theatres in Paris, which had lasted far into the night, and was only lately over.
Those I overheard speak of it said it had been a great patriotic spectacle, in the course of which National Guards and cadets had marched across the stage, unfurling the banner of the Republic, and taking the oath of the people amid scenes of wild enthusiasm and shouting.

To add to the enthusiasm of the occasion a party of real volunteers had appeared, and after receiving the three-coloured cockade from their sweethearts, had shouldered their guns and marched, singing the Marseillaise, straight from the theatre to the road for La Vendue, where they were going to shed their blood for their country.
The audience had risen, waving hats and handkerchiefs to bid them God- speed, and then poured forth into the streets, shouting the chorus, and cheering till they were hoarse and tired.
It was into a party of such loyal revellers that I found myself sucked before I was half-way out of the Rue d'Agnes; and yelling and shouting at the top of my voice I passed safely the guards, and reached the broad Rue Saint Honore.

Here the crowd gradually dispersed, some one way, some another, while a few, with cries of "_A la Place_," held on in company.

With these I joined myself, and presently came to a great open square, where on a high platform stood a grim and terrible looking object.