“Give me another cutlet.” “Would you not prefer fish of some kind,--salmon, river trout, or----” “I prefer another cutlet.” “Very well, monsieur. _Chef_, another cutlet--one!” “The _chef_ of this establishment is certainly deaf,” thought Eusebe; “and that is a disagreeable infirmity both for himself and for other people.” After the second cutlet, Eusebe demanded a third, and then a piece of cheese. While he was eating his last piece of bread and drinking a glass of water, there was a sudden commotion in the room, and several persons ran to the windows. The provincial thought something extraordinary was in progress, and was all eyes and ears for the time. He could see nothing, at first, but the usual throng of vehicles and pedestrians. Then a tightly closed wagon, escorted by four gendarmes, attracted his attention. The wagon passed on; the persons in the restaurant returned to their seats, and the conversation became animated. “It is unfortunate, beyond doubt,” said a large man with a white cravat, “but we cannot punish too severely those who are trying to bring about anarchy and disorder.” “Poor fellows!” said a young woman: “they have sisters and mothers who weep for them.” “Yes, and mistresses too,” added a man whose features were marked by the ravages of the smallpox. The young woman turned towards the speaker, and, after looking at him fixedly, responded,-- “Yes, monsieur, they have mistresses.” “Poor fellows! they may never see their country again.” “Life is long.” “While they live there is hope.” Eusebe was exceedingly curious. He did not comprehend a word of this conversation, and dared not question anybody. His neighbor, however, a man of rough and swarthy aspect, came to his relief, saying,-- “These people indulge in very absurd reflections.” “I know not what they have said,” responded the provincial. “They alluded to the men who have just passed: they are condemned to transportation.” “May I venture to ask what they mean by transportation?” “Sending men into exile.” “For what reason?” “Because they wished to fight for liberty,” whispered the swarthy man, who then took his hat, and, casting a glance of defiance at the throng, departed. Eusebe followed. As he passed out of the door, he heard the waiter exclaim,-- “There goes a verdant one.” Eusebe thought this was intended as an insult, but he was not sure of the sense of the term verdant, and, therefore, gave himself no trouble about it. He took a seat on one of the benches of the Boulevard du Temple, and seemed absorbed in reflection. What he thought, it is impossible for us to say; but when he arose, he might have been heard to murmur,-- “They raise monuments to the memory of citizens who have died for liberty, and they banish others who wish to fight for it. This does not appear consistent,--unless there are two kinds of liberty, one good and the other bad.” CHAPTER VII.