sons were shut up, and my two illustrious friends, Auguste Vacquérie and

Paul Meurice, and those gallant writers, Louis Jourdan, Erdan, and

Suchet. I could not help thinking that on that day they would assuredly

not have given leave of absence to these men.

Meanwhile Xavier Durrieu whispered to me, "I have just left Proudhon. He

wishes to see you. He is waiting for you down below, close by, at the

entrance to the Place. You will find him leaning on the parapet of the

canal."

"I am going," said I.

I went downstairs.

I found in truth, at the spot mentioned, Proudhon, thoughtful, leaning

with his two elbows on the parapet. He wore that broad-brimmed hat in

which I had often seen him striding alone up and down the courtyard of

the Concièrgerie.

I went up to him.

"You wish to speak to me."

Yes," and he shook me by the hand.

The corner where we were standing was lonely. On the left there was the

Place de la Bastille, dark and gloomy; one could see nothing there, but

one could feel a crowd; regiments were there in battle array; they did

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The History of a Crime