"Do not call me by that dear name: I can not bear it. No; I called myself Hippolyte after one of our footmen: I could not bear to hear the name my darling mother addressed me by profaned by the lips that surrounded me afterward. But to proceed--" "Oh no; pray spare yourself." "On the contrary, it is a relief to my long-pent-up grief: I had for some time lived in the streets, subsisting upon chance; and I was standing on a heap of rubbish, just where the corner-house on the left-hand side of the Rue Royale now stands, looking at the guillotine doing its dreadful work. A man, a woman mounted, and their heads fell; two other women, coarsely attired, stood waiting; one turned--Oh God! it was my mother!--my gentle, timid, kind, darling mother! Timid and gentle no longer, she looked calm and cold, moved resolutely, looking for one moment up to Heaven, and said words I would now give my life-blood to hear. My blood curdled, my heart stopped, as I heard the rattle and clap of the descending guillotine. 'Maman! maman!' I shrieked. It was over! 'Encore une autre!' shouted a fierce man beside me. 'Maman! maman!' 'Wring the neck of that little aristocrat!' cried the mob. The man advanced, as I hoped, to kill me at once, but he only grasped me fast, saying, 'No, I shall take him home, pour le tuer à mon aise.' Death I wished for; but torture!--I fainted; and when I came to myself I was in an unfrequented street, still tightly held by the man. 'Don't be afraid, my child--I shan't hurt you; but never, as you value your life, whisper your name; if you do--here he swore a terrific oath--I _will_ kill you _cruelly_. Now come with me. You shall sleep with mon petit Pierre: call yourself Achille, Hercule, Hippolyte--what you please, if not your own name.' Hippolyte, then, and Hippolyte I have been ever since--Jean Hippolyte, when I signed my name. The house he carried me to was wretched, dark, and dirty; the food given coarse, but plentiful; and here I groveled, moody, and nearly mad, for more than a year, wandering through the streets idle and in rags, seldom speaking, unless forced, lest I should inadvertently betray myself. At last this man, whose name was Jean Leroux, told me he had obtained employment for both Pierre and me in a boulangerie. We were clothed somewhat more decently, and sent about with bread to different parts of the neighborhood, and employed in various little ways at first, sweeping out the shop, ovens, &c.; but by degrees we made progress. As I could both read and write, which Pierre could not do, and he was also naturally a slow, indolent boy, I was preferred before him; but he was not ill-natured, and bore me no malice. I grew up healthy enough, and tall; got forward at my trade, and soon made money. I served also seven years under the Emperor, and brought away, besides my laurels, two trifling wounds. Upon my return, still keeping my secret, which, however, there was now no longer danger in