The Police Courts of London have often displayed many a curious character, many a strange scene, many an exquisite bit of dialogue; so have the Police Courts in Ireland, especially at the Petty Sessions in Kilrush; but we are not so well aware of how often a scene of rich and peculiar humour occurs in the Police _tribuneaux_ of Paris. We will proceed to give the reader a “taste of their quality.” An extremely old woman, all in rags, was continually found begging in the streets, and the Police having goodnaturedly let her off several times, were at last obliged to take her in charge, and bring her into the Court. Several magistrates were sitting. The following dialogue took place between the President and the old woman. _President._ Now, my good woman, what have you to say for yourself? You have been frequently warned by the Police, but you have persisted in troubling people with begging. _Old Woman_ (_in a humble quavering tone_). Ah, Monsieur le President, it is not so much trouble to other people as it is to me. I am a very old woman. _Pres._ Come, come, you must leave off begging, or I shall be obliged to punish you. _Old W._ But, Monsieur le President, I cannot live without--I must beg--pardon me, Monsieur--I am obliged to beg. _Pres._ But I say you must not. Can you do no work? _Old W._ Ah, no, Monsieur; I am too old. _Pres._ Can’t you sell something--little cakes--bonbons?-- _Old W._ No, Monsieur, I can’t get any little stock to begin with; and, if I could, I should be robbed by the _gamins_, or the little girls, for I’m not very quick, and can’t see well. _Pres._ Your relations must support you, then. You cannot be allowed to beg. Have you no son--no daughter--no grandchildren? _Old W._ No, Monsieur; none--none--all my relations are dead. _Pres._ Well then, your friends must give you assistance. _Old W._ Ah, Monsieur, I have no friends; and, indeed, I never had but one, in my life; but he too is gone. _Pres._ And who was he? _Old W._ Monsieur de Robespierre--_le pauvre cher homme!_ (The poor, dear man!) _Pres._ Robespierre!--why what did you know of him? _Old W._ Oh, Monsieur, my mother was one of the _tricoteurs_ (knitting-women) who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine, and I always stood beside her. When Monsieur de Robespierre was passing by, in attending his duties, he used to touch my cheek, and call me (here the old woman shed tears) _la belle Marguerite_:--_le pauvre, cher homme!_ We must here pause to remind the reader that these women, the _tricoteurs_, who used to sit round the foot of the guillotine on the mornings when it was at its hideous work, were sometimes called the “Furies;” but only as a grim jest. It is well known, that, although there were occasionally some sanguinary hags amongst them, yet, for the most part, they were merely idle, gossiping women, who came there dressed in neat white caps, and with their knitting materials, out of sheer love of excitement, and to enjoy the _spectacle_.