We have dwelt so long upon Jérome Paturot that we can afford but a few lines to his brother in hosiery. Poor Monsieur Bonardin! Never, since humanity first took to stocking-wearing, was a vender of that useful article more scurvily treated than he was by the French republic of 1848. The 25th of February beheld him a prosperous man and an ardent republican,--"a republican of the morrow," certainly, but no worse for that; four months of liberty and fraternity brought him to ruin and suicide. At first, all his anticipations are rose-coloured. Increase of trade, an unlimited demand for hosiery, must be the consequences of the new order of things. He is fully persuaded great days are coming for the renowned establishment at the sign of the Spinning Monkey. The day after the revolution he opens his shop as usual, but only to be bullied by an _ouvrier_ who steps in to buy a red cap, finds none but white, curses Bonardin for a Carlist, and carries off his national guardsman's musket. Uproar recommences in the street; the shop is shut, and continues so for some days. The end of the month arrives; there are payments to be made, and M. Bonardin sends Criquet to the bank with bills for discount--first-rate paper at short date. Criquet brings them back; the best signatures no longer find cash. M. Bonardin is in all the agonies of a punctual paymaster who sees a chance of his signature's dishonour, when suddenly he is summoned to his duty as national guard. On his return, after a sleepless night and a fagging day, he has scarcely got amongst the blankets, when he is roused by voices in the street calling out, in a measured chant, for lamps at his windows. _M. Bonardin_, awaking in alarm, and jumping out of bed-- What is that? (_Cries in the street, 'Des lampions! des lampions!'_) Good! here they are again with their infernal lamps! Impossible to sleep under this republic! _Voices of boys in the street._--Hallo! first floor! Spinning Monkey! Lamps! lamps! _M. Bonardin._--What a nuisance! (_calling out_)--Babet! Babet! _The boys shouting_,--Lamps or candles!... break the ugly monkey's windows, if he does not light up directly! _M. Bonardin._--Lord bless me!... Babet! Babet!... _Babet_, (_running in_,)--What is it, sir? _M. Bonardin._--Don't you hear them? Cut a candle in eight pieces directly. Not a minute to lose! _The boys._--It's a _Carlisse_, (_Carlist_.) Hallo, there! lamps or candles! _M. Bonardin_, (_in his nightgown, opening the window_.)--Directly, citizens, directly! A minute's patience! _The boys._--Ah! there's the old monkey himself! Bravo! bravo! 'D'un sang impur engraissons nos sillons!' _M. Bonardin_, (_flourishing his nightcap_.)--Yes, yes, my friends, _d'un sang impur!..._ Certainly, by all means; _Vive la République!_