The seed shopman, whose name was Soufflot, surveyed his room with pride. It was the storeroom of the seed shop. All along the center of the room were two rows of rude benches put together to make one long table. The walls were festooned from one end to the other with tri-color rosettes and streamers. At the far end of the room was a great banner upon which were the words “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death” in bright red, white, and blue letters. The seed shopman had little enough to offer in the way of refreshment, his own nourishment consisting of black bread and lentil soup; but he was fortunate in having friends from the country. Raoul’s master had brought a couple of suckling pigs and had ordered a superb cake from the famous bakery on the rue Saint Honoré! There were rows of tin plates along each side of the improvised table, and jugs of thin red wine were placed at intervals down the middle. From an inner room came the smell of sizzling, roasted pig. The cake sat in the center of the table. It was of so regal an aspect that it seemed to have no part with its surroundings. A clock somewhere near the West Barricade struck nine. It was time for the guests to arrive. Just then, the market gardener, who had contributed largely to the feast, entered the room, Raoul at his heels. Towering behind them, his grey cloak wrapt close about him, hatless, and with the breath of fields and woods that seemed always to hover mysteriously about him, was Dian! “I’ve brought in a man from the farmlands. He met up with the boy, Raoul. He’s a shepherd and he’s new to the city. He went to a sitting of the convention last night and spoke some good words, but those fools wouldn’t listen to him,” said the market gardener. Having donated the pigs and potatoes and the cake for the feast, he felt at liberty to bring in whom he pleased to partake of it. Soufflot gave Dian a hearty welcome. His greeting was interrupted by the loud trampling of feet and the jangle of rough voices on the stairs, and the next moment the party arrived! It was a noisy meal after the first hunger had been appeased. The guests, whose food consisted daily of black bread and garlic washed down with poor wine, ate enormously, declaring that they never knew that roasted pig could taste so good. When at last they had had enough of the pig, they sat back and began to talk. “The aristocrats are going, going, going! The guillotine is doing good work. But we must find them all, we must not let any escape! Some of them are getting away in spite of us, but, for the most part, they’re safe under lock and key or, better still, minus their thinking caps!”