Unfortunately for our two curious friends, the fête attracted none but themselves. From daybreak, the Champ de Mars commenced to get animated. The “merchands” of cakes and lemonade, hoping that the patriotism would hunger and thirst those who signed the document, commenced arriving from all quarters. Tired of walking about, one of these women ascended the altar, for the purpose of looking at the picture of the triumph of Voltaire. While reading the oath of Brutus, of which she understood nothing, she felt an instrument piercing the sole of her shoe. She immediately cried out for help, and declared there were malefactors underneath the altar; upon which a young man went in search of the guard of Gros Caillon. The guard, fancying the affair was not worth while troubling himself about, refused to stir. In the absence of the soldiers, he called the passing workmen. These, more sensible to the cries of distress than the guard, came with their tools. They set to work, without delay, to open the altar, and there they found Léger and his companion, in a pretended sleep! They were not long, however, bringing them to consciousness, when they were commanded to explain the cause of their presence there, and to state if their intentions were justifiable, and they were forced to own the truth. At that moment, a curious individual dropped himself under the altar, to see what it was like, and there found the barrel of water. Mistaking this for powder, he rushed forth, crying, with all his might, that the two prisoners had intended blowing up the altar, as well as those who would find themselves thereon. The hair-dresser and Invalid cried loudly that it was water, and not powder, and that, by breaking the barrel, they would arrive at the truth; but the truth was too simple. They thought it more natural to strangle the two unfortunate men, or decapitate them, and promenade their heads on the top of a pike. At this stage of the proceedings, the bailiffs of the municipality arrived, and proclaimed the arrest of the Mayor. They then proceeded towards the Roule, but were overtaken at the top of Rue St. Honoré by the crowd carrying the heads of the two supposed assassins on the top of their pikes. I fancied that I could recognise one of these as that of a neighbor; it turned out to be that of the poor hair-dresser, who came the preceding night to borrow the centre-bit from M. Duplay. I could scarcely believe my eyes. What crime could they possibly be guilty of? I called M. Duplay. There must have been a strange accent in my voice; for, with the exception of my grandmother, who was always occupied reading and re-reading her volume of the “Arabian Nights,” the whole family rushed towards me; the women shrieked with terror, but one was beginning to get accustomed to these sorts of spectacles, and, by degrees, they risked looking. Every one recognised Léger. What had he done?