At the barrier, however, things fell out easier for me than I had feared. For, just as I arrived, a common cart on the way out had been stopped and searched, and in it, hidden in a wood packing-case, had been unearthed some notorious enemy of the people, over whose detection there was great rejoicing, and the promise of a famous execution in the morning. For all these reasons the soldiers and officials into whose hands I fell were in high good-humour, and after scanning my passport and the letter to the deputy let me go by. I had followed the advice of my late counsellor, and forgotten all the little French I knew, and had hidden the letter to Citoyen Lestrange in my stocking. Whether I was to carry out the rest of his advice remained to be seen. The officer at the barrier retained my passport, saying it was done with, from which I concluded that now I was in Paris there was little hope of getting out of it again. So, feeling like a mouse in a trap, I parted company with my horse, my passport, and even my pistol (of which I was also relieved), and walked forward into the noisy city, wishing I only knew where to go next. Presently I came into a long narrow street, where the houses overhead slanted towards one another and nearly shut out the light of heaven. Poles stuck out from the windows, on which hung clothes or signs or legends; the sight of which, swaying in the wind, mingled with the foul odour and the noise and the jostling crowd, fairly dazed a country boy like me. How, in such a place as this, was I to find what I wanted-- namely, a meal and a night's lodging? At last, in front of me, there swung a flaunting sign--"A l'Irlandois"-- at which I cheered up. Here, at any rate, in the midst of this noisome babel, seemed to come a whiff from the old country, and I felt like a castaway in sight of land. But before I had time to reach the place the whole street seemed suddenly to go mad. First there was a yell and a roll of drums at the end by which I had entered. Then every window seemed alive with people, straining forward with howls and execrations and clenched fists. From every door below poured forth a crowd, who fought with one another for a place next the roadway, waved their red caps, and shouted in a wild sort of chant some French song. In the rush stalls and barrows were overturned, but there was no one to heed; children were trampled on, but no one heard their cries; pockets were picked, but there was no one to miss their loss; windows were smashed, but there was no one to feel a draught. To my wondering fancy, all Paris had suddenly turned into this narrow Rue d'Agnes and there run mad.