These evasive answers made Félicién think that I was not particularly anxious to cross foils with him; so he commenced a recital of his prowess and so, kindly lulled me to sleep. I awoke, as usual, at daybreak, and slipping quietly out of bed, I dressed myself with as little noise as possible, so as not to awaken Félicién, and when ready, I left the room, and descended into the court. All of M. Duplay’s household were asleep, but the door was left open, so that I did not waste an instant. The clock of the Church of Assumption sounded the half-after four o’clock as I left the house. I was utterly incapable of finding my way about Paris, in which I had arrived only the evening before; but the solemnity to be observed on the morrow had early drawn crowds abroad, so the streets were pretty full notwithstanding the untimely hour. I asked my nearest route; they pointed out to me the Boulevards. Arrived there, I had only to follow that by no means despicable portion of my body, my nose, and, in a very short time, I discovered the Rue Grange Batélière. Ten minutes after, I entered the “Hotel des Postes,” and discovered, to my great joy, that M. Drouet was within. I rushed to his chamber, and opened the door gently. He was not only awake, but on his feet. “Ah! there you are!” said he, after having looked at me for an instant without having recognised me, on account of the disappearance of my hair. “Where have you been, you vagabond? I have been in a nice state of mind, I can assure you. It appears that you have been taken in a trap, like a fox, and been compelled to leave your tail behind you.” “But you also have acquiesced in the mode.” “Yes; but not with the same enthusiasm as you. You have been foolish enough to cross the Pont Neuf, my boy.” Not knowing what happened on the Pont Neuf, I could not appreciate M. Drouet’s pleasantry. I told him all that had happened—from my meeting with the carpenter, on the Champ de Mars, to my visit to the Jacobin Club. “Very good,” said Drouet. “You passed last night among the aristocracy—you shall pass this among the _canaille_.” “Shall we spend the night together?” cried I, joyously. “Yes; I will take you to the Cordeliers, where you will meet neither dukes, nor princes, nor marquises, but three citizens, whom you tell me you have often thought of—to wit, Marat, Danton, and Camille Desmoulins; in the meantime, we will take a stroll round Paris.” “What I wish most to see, M. Drouet, is the Bastille.” “You mean to say, the place where it stood?” “Yes.” “Come along, then; we will breakfast at the first restaurant we find, and then, hey! for the Place de la Bastille.” M. Drouet knew Paris very well, having been there about twenty times. We were not long before we arrived at a wall, on which was written, in large letters:— “Here was the Bastille.”