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the garden entrance, however, they were stopped. Justine's anticipation proved true: the door was fastened. But the delay was only momentary. Feeling about, Justine's hand touched the key, which was hanging to a nail in the wall; it was quickly in the lock, and they stood in the Rue d'Astorg
“Free at last !” exclaimed Bianca, uttering a deep-drawn breath. “Where shall we go now?" asked Justine.
“No matter," returned Bianca. 6 All ways are alike that lead from this quarter.
Trusting to the Providence which Bianca had invoked, they advanced cautiously till they came to an intersecting street, at the opposite end of which a lamp was burning brightly, and they turned in that direction. It was the light which illumined a public fountain, and already the watercarriers were engaged in their vocation.
“If we could obtain a guide,” said Bianca, “I would reward him well. Speak to one of them, Justine."
The bonne obeyed, and addressed herself to a tall, powerful man, who had just filled his enormous barrel, and was stooping to lift it on his truck.
The Auvergnat desisted from his task, stared hard at Justine, and then inquired what she wanted.
“Will you show us to an hotel ?” she said. “ You shall be paid for your trouble.”
The giant scratched his head.
“How can I tell ?" retorted Justine, sharply. “What a stupid fellow you must be! As if I knew where you were going!" “Well
, then, I am carrying this water to Monsieur Bonenfant, the baker.”
“ And where does he live ?”
“We are as badly off as ever,” said Justine. “But,” she added, impatiently, “ Auverguat as you are, you ought to know Paris."
every street within the barriers." “Then surely you can say where there is some hotel !" “Certainly. I could name fifty.” “ Take us, then, to one.”
The Auvergnat appeared puzzled, and tried to enter into an explanation. It was no part of his morning's work to walk about Paris with ladies, though he would do it, gladly, if he were at liberty; he should like nothing better. But his duty was to fetch water for Monsieur Bonenfant; he paid him twenty francs a month, and gave him his nourishment into the bargain.
" You shall have twenty francs for only half an hour,” interposed Bianca, producing a piece of gold.
The Auvergnat's eyes glistened at the sight of the coin, yet he was immovable. He shook his head, and said he was losing his time-he ought to have been half way down the Rue de Provence; it was of no use to offer him money ; he was bound to Monsieur Bonenfant.
There was only one mode of conquering his stubborn honesty.
“ It is quite right,” she said, “ that you should work for the person who pays you regular wages; but when you
have taken that water home what have you to do next?”'
“ Nothing,” replied the Auvergnat, “except to eat my breakfast at my corner, and wait about for errands, or carry loads for anybody that wants me.”
“Well, then, if we accompany you as far as the Rue de Provence, you can take us where we want to go afterwards.”
“I must carry the water in first.”
“With all my heart, then,” said the water-carrier, inexpressibly relieved by this simple solution of his difficulty.
“A Norman,” said Justine, turning to Mademoiselle de Gournay, “ would have made this proposal himself. But these Auvergnats ! Ils sont bêtes comme mes sabots !”
“They are honest, however,” replied Bianca, “and we may safely rely on him."
Meantime the Auvergnat had loaded the truck, thinking no more of a weight which two ordinary men could scarcely have stirred, than if he were lifting a feather. But before he put himself in the shafts he took the effects of Mademoiselle de Gournay and her bonne, and, smiling good-humouredly, deposited them on his vehicle. This done, he bent his head down to his task, and started for the Rue de Provence, looking round, however, occasionally, to see that he was closely followed.
There was some necessity for this precaution, for the pace at which he dragged his truck made it difficult for Bianca and Justine to keep up with him, and from time to time he was obliged to stop to enable them to recover the ground they had lost.
In this manner, alternately halting and then pushing on, the Auvergnat performed his customary morning journey, and by the time he arrived at his destination the day had fairly dawned. More than one shrill voice assured Bianca and her attendant that their good-natured guide received a less cordial welcome than usual when he entered the baker's house, but he was of an imperturbable nature, and heeded hard words no more than he cared for heavy weights. He simply told his companions to wait a few minutes, and then, having discharged his office, he should be at their service. They waited, therefore, in the street till he had passed to and fro with his buckets: but, before the Auvergoat could redeem his promise, the state of affairs out of doors was somewhat changed.
Although the revolution of February had been effected with comparatively little bloodshed—although royalty was expelled, and a republic substituted, the people—that is to say, the prolétaires—were not satisfied. They had the men of their choice-Albert, Louis Blanc, and the restamong the members of the Provisional Government; but the great good to themselves which they expected from a revolution did not come fast enough. It was all very well to organise committees for ensuring work on equitable terms, but no terms were agreeable to those who did not wish to work under any circumstances, or, at the utmost, only when they
way they issued
pleased; and mistrust in the leaders whom the people had chosen was soon declared, inflammatory addresses placarded the walls, and attroupements were not wanting to give them a practical meaning.
On the night over which we have lingered to speak of what befel the chief personages of our story, there had been a meeting in the Faubourg Montmartre of a body which called itself the “ Central Republican Society," of which the well-known Blanqui was the president, Flotte the treasurer, and Crousse, Pujol, and Javelot distinguished members. They had assembled to denounce the counter-revolution, as they termed the measures which had for their object the preservation of order, and long and violent had been the speeches with which they wore out the night. When morning came it brought with it the fixed resolve of this band of patriots to undo all that the Provisional Government had accomplished, and re-establish the Republic on a broader and still more democratic basis. The adherents to such a scheme were men well calculated to have made themselves conspicuous in 1793, and success alone was wanting to bring back the days of the first Terror. That success might attend their proceedings, the Central Republican Society had decided on a surprise ; and as soon as it was light enough for them to see their from their den, to seize upon certain posts of importance, expecting to raise all Paris as they went along,
The shop of Monsieur Bonenfant, the baker whom the Auvergnat served, was situated about three or four doors from the intersection of the Rue de Provence with the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, and Mademoiselle de Gournay and Justine were standing beside its closely grated windows when a dull sound struck their ears, like the heavy tramp of a body of men advancing.
They listened—the sound came nearer and nearer, and presently the carrefour at the end of the street was filled by a strange-looking crowd, most of them in blouses, and all armed with muskets and bayonets. They evidently formed part of an attroupement, and Justine, who was the first to see them, drew Bianca between the projecting gratings, till the crowd should have passed. But instead of marching straight down the Faubourg Montmartre, they halted in the carrefour, waiting, apparently, for orders from behind. Then a loud voice was heard, directing their advance on the Rue de Provence, and, with the cry of “ Aux Etrangères !" the head of the column turned in the direction indicated. This movement was the signal for a sentinel at a corps-de-garde in the Rue de Provence to challenge the approach of the mob. His challenge was answered by a shot from one of the blouses. The guard at the post instantly ran tó arms, and in a moment the street was enveloped in a fire of musketry.
To find shelter in the baker's house was now the only chance of safety for the two refugees, and they rushed to the entrance through which the Auvergnat had disappeared.
But before they could reach it the heavy door was closed in their faces by somebody inside, and Bianca and Justine were left defenceless in the street.
LEARNING ON THE TRAMP.
SiR JOHN ROMILLY has recently done good service to the literature of our country by exhuming from the Record-office various autobiographies and characteristic documents which throw light on the past of our country. The same thing has, however, been going on for several years past in Germany, although the result of private enterprise--for few rulers in that country can spare money for purely useful purposes. A most valuable contribution is now being made to contemporary literature by Gustav Freytag, the author of “ Debit and Credit,” who has taken in hand the task of making excerpts from these volumes and arranging them in chronological order. In this way we shall very shortly possess a perfect history of past social life in Germany, without the trouble of seeking for information through many ponderous tomes.*
The specimen we have selected for illustration of the value of this volume gives an account of a travelling scholar, Thomas Platter, a poor shepherd lad, from the Visper Valley, in Valais, and afterwards a respected printer and school-rector at Basle. At that period no curious traveller visited the Zermatt or the glaciers of the Monte Rosa. The lad grew up solitary among the rocks and his goats, and the only incidents of his boy-life were the forays made by eagles among his flock and the severity of his master. How he was hurled forth in the world he shall tell in his own words :
While I was living with the peasant there came one of my cousins, Frantz by name, who wished to take me to my relation, Master Antony Platter, so that I might go to school. The peasant was ill satisfied at this, and said that I should learn nothing, and laid the forefinger of his right hand on his left, with the words : “ The boy will learn as little as I can thrust my finger through here.” That I saw and heard. To him the cousin : “Who knows? God has not denied him His gifts; He may still make a pious priest of him.” She then took me to the master, and I was, as far as I recollect, nine to nine and a half years of age. At first I fared badly, for the master was a very angry man, and I a stupid peasant lad. He thrashed me cruelly, often took me by the ears and raised me from the earth, so that I yelled like a kid when the knife is stuck in it, and the neighbours often asked if he were going to murder me.
With him I was not long. For about this time came my aunt's son, who had been to the schools at Ulm and Munich, in the Bavarian, and his name was Paulus Summersmatter. My relations told him about me, and he promised them to take me with him, and take me to the schools in Germany. When I heard this, I fell on my knees and prayed God the Almighty to help me from this priest who taught me nothing, but beat me so unmercifully. For I had only, learned to sing the Salve a little, and go a begging for eggs with the other scholars, who were in the village with the priest.
* Bilder aus der Deutschen Vergangenheit, herausgegeben von Gustav Freytag. Erster Theil. Leipzig: Hirzel.
When Paulus, therefore, was about to start again, I was to go and join him at Stalden. My uncle gave me a gold florin, which I carried in my hand as far as Stalden, looking often to see whether I still had it, and then gave it to Paulus. Thus we set forth. I was obliged to beg for myself and give the alms to my Bachant, Paulus, for through my simplicity and country talk much was bestowed on me.
When we got across the Grimsel one night to an inn, I had never seen a stove before, and as the moon shone on the tiles, I fancied that it was a great calf, for I only saw two tiles glistening, which looked like eyes. The next morning I saw some geese for the first time, and when they hissed at me, I thought they were demons and wished to eat me up, so I shouted and ran away. In Lucerne I saw the first slate roofs.
After that we went to Meissen. It was a long journey, for I was not used to walking so far and gain my food on the road. We were about nine in company; three little Schützen, the rest grown-up Bachants, among whom I was the youngest and smallest Schütz. When I was unable to walk, my cousin Paulus walked behind me with a stick or rod, and beat my naked legs, for I had no breeches and very bad shoes. I forget most of the things that happened on the road, but I can remember a few. As we were going along and talking of all sorts of things, the Bachants remarked that it was the custom in Meissen and Silesia for the scholars to steal geese and ducks, and other eatable matters, and nothing was done to them if they managed to escape the owner, One day we were not far from a village, where there was a large flock of geese together, and no keeper; so I asked my comrades, “When shall we be in Meissen, so that I may kill geese?" Then they said, “We are there now.” So I took up a stone, threw it at a goose, and hit it on the leg, so that it could not Ay away. Then I finished it with a blow on the head, and carried it under my coat through the village. Then the keeper came running up, shouting, “ The blackguard has stolen one of my geese!” I and my fellows bolted, and the goose's feet hung down under my coat. The peasants came out with pikes they could throw, and were after us. When I saw that I could not escape, goose and all, I let it fall, and cut away from the road in a clump of trees, but two of my comrades kept to the road, and were caught by the villagers. Then they fell on their knees and begged for mercy; they had done no harm; and as the villagers saw that neither was the one who let the goose fall, they went back into the village and picked up the goose. I saw, though, how they hurried after my comrades, and was in a great stew, and said to myself, “ Ah! I believe that I have not blessed myself this day” (I had been taught, namely, to bless myself every morning). When the peasants got back to the village, they found our Bachants at an inn, and insisted on their paying for the goose--it was only the matter of a few pence—but I do not know whether they did so or not. When they found us again, they laughed, and asked what had happened. I made excuse that I faucied it was the custom of the country, but they said it was not yet time.
Another time a murderer came to us in a wood eleven miles this side Nuremberg, when we were all together: he wanted to gamble with our Bachants, and so keep them till the rest of the band came up; but we had an honest fellow with us, Antony Schalbether by name, who