the remarks of a serious man; the father was saying to his son,-- "The sage lives contented with little; look at me, my son, I do not care for luxury. You never see me in a coat glistening with gold and precious stones; I leave that false lustre to badly-organized minds." Here the deep shouts which came from the direction of the Halles broke out, with a redoublement of hells and noise. "What is that?" the lad asked. The father replied,-- "That is the saturnalia." All at once he perceived the two little ragged boys standing motionless behind the swan's green house. "Here is the beginning," he said. And after a silence he added,-- "Anarchy enters this garden." In the mean while the boy bit the cake, spat it out again, and suddenly began crying. "Why are you crying?" the father asked. "I am no longer hungry," said the boy. The father's smile became more marked than ever. "You need not be hungry to eat a cake." "I am tired of cake; it is so filling." "Don't you want any more?" "No." The father showed him the swans. "Throw it to those palmipeds." The boy hesitated, for if he did not want any more cake that was no reason to give it away. The father continued,-- "Be humane: you ought to have pity on animals." And, taking the cake from his son, he threw it into the basin, where it fell rather near the bank. The swans were some distance off, near the centre of the basin, and engaged with some prey: they had seen neither the citizen nor the cake. The citizen, feeling that the cake ran a risk of being lost, and affected by this useless shipwreck, began a telegraphic agitation which eventually attracted the attention of the swans. They noticed something floating on the surface, tacked, like the vessels they are, and came towards the cake slowly, with the majesty that befits white beasts. "Swans understand signs," said the bourgeois, pleased at his own cleverness. At this moment the distant tumult of the city was suddenly swollen. This time it was sinister, and there are some puffs of wind which speak more distinctly than others. The one which blew at this moment distinctly brought up the rolling of drums, shouts, platoon fires, and the mournful replies of the tocsin, and the cannon. This coincided with a black cloud which suddenly veiled the sky. The swans had not yet reached the cake. "Let us go home," the father said; "they are attacking the Tuileries," He seized his son's hand again, and then continued,--- "From the Tuileries to the Luxembourg there is only the distance which separates the royalty from the peerage; and that is not far. It is going to rain musketry." He looked at the cloud,-- "And perhaps we shall have rain of the other sort too; heaven is interfering: the younger branch is condemned. Let us make haste home." "I should like to see the swans eat the cake," said the boy.