There one saw, almost in the living, suffering body, poor Marie Antoinette in prison in the Temple, her little son on his couch of rags, the rats eating from his platter, the brutal Simon calling to him from the grated window; one almost heard the words, "Ho la, little Capet--are you asleep?" One saw Marat bleeding in his bath--the brave Charlotte eyeing him--the very tiles of the bath-room, the glass of the windows with, outside, the very sunlight, as it seemed, of 1793 on that "yellow July evening, the thirteenth of the month." The spectators did not move in a public place among wax-work figures. They peeped through open doors into rooms where history seemed to be re-lived. The rooms were lighted each by its own sun, or lamp, or candle. The spectators walked among shadows that might have oppressed a nervous person. "Fine, eh?" said Vincent. "Yes," said Edward; "it's wonderful." A turn of a corner brought them to a room. Marie Antoinette fainting, supported by her ladies; poor fat Louis by the window looking literally sick. "What's the matter with them all?" said Edward. "Look at the window," said Vincent. There was a window to the room. Outside was sunshine--the sunshine of 1792--and, gleaming in it, blonde hair flowing, red mouth half open, what seemed the just-severed head of a beautiful woman. It was raised on a pike, so that it seemed to be looking in at the window. "I say!" said Edward, and the head on the pike seemed to sway before his eyes. "Madame de Lamballe. Good thing, isn't it?" said Vincent. "It's altogether too much of a good thing," said Edward. "Look here--I've had enough of this." "Oh, you must just see the Catacombs," said Vincent; "nothing bloody, you know. Only Early Christians being married and baptized, and all that." He led the way, down some clumsy steps to the cellars which the genius of a great artist has transformed into the exact semblance of the old Catacombs at Rome. The same rough hewing of rock, the same sacred tokens engraved strongly and simply; and among the arches of these subterranean burrowings the life of the Early Christians, their sacraments, their joys, their sorrows--all expressed in groups of wax-work as like life as Death is. "But this is very fine, you know," said Edward, getting his breath again after Madame de Lamballe, and his imagination loved the thought of the noble sufferings and refrainings of these first lovers of the Crucified Christ. "Yes," said Vincent for the third time; "isn't it?" They passed the baptism and the burying and the marriage. The tableaux were sufficiently lighted, but little light strayed to the narrow passage where the two men walked, and the darkness seemed to press, tangible as a bodily presence, against Edward's shoulder. He glanced backward. "Come," he said, "I've had enough." "Come on, then," said Vincent.