They crossed the bridge, and sauntered to the front of the noble old cathedral, where already the hand of improvement was beginning to clear away the houses that surrounded and overshadowed its beauty. Jack Chicot was looking up at the glorious western door, built by Philip Augustus, thickly wrought with _fleurs-de-lys_, where in days of old had appeared the sculptured images of all the kings of Judah, shrined in niches of stonework, as delicate as lace or spring foliage. His wife’s eyes roved right and left, and all around, seeking some diversion for a mind prone to weariness when not stimulated by amusement or dissipation. ‘See, my friend,’ she cried suddenly, clutching her husband’s arm. ‘There is something! Look, what a crowd of people. Is it a procession or an accident?’ ‘An accident, I think,’ answered Chicot, looking down the street facing them, along which a closely-packed crowd was hastening, rolling towards them like a mighty wave of black water. ‘We had better get out of the way.’ ‘But, no,’ cried the wife eagerly. ‘If there is something to see, let us see it. Life is not too full of distractions.’ ‘It may be something unpleasant,’ suggested Jack. ‘I am afraid they are carrying some poor creature to the Morgue.’ ‘That matters nothing. We may as well see.’ So they waited, and fell in among the hurrying crowd, and heard many voices discussing the thing that had happened, every voice offering a different version of the same ghastly story. A man had been run over on the Boulevard--a seafaring man from the provinces--knocked down by the horses of a huge wagon. The horses had kicked him, the wheels had gone over his body. ‘He was dead when they picked him up,’ said one. ‘No, he spoke, and hardly seemed conscious he was hurt,’ said another. ‘He died while they were waiting for the _brancard_ on which to carry him to the hospital,’ said a third. And now they were taking him to the Morgue, the famous dead-house of the city, down by the river yonder. He was being carried in the midst of that dense crowd, which had been gathering ever since the bearers started with their ghastly burden, from the Porte St. Denis, where the accident happened. He was there in the centre of that mass of human life, an awful figure, covered from head to foot, and hidden from all those curious eyes. Jack and his wife were borne along with the rest, past the great cathedral, down by the river, to the doors of the dead-house. Here they all came to a stop: no one was allowed to enter save the dead man and his bearers, and three or four _sergents de ville_. ‘We must wait till they have made his toilet,’ said La Chicot to her husband, ‘and then we can go in and see him.’ ‘What!’ cried Jack, ‘surely you would not wish to look at a piece of shattered humanity? He must be a dreadful sight, poor creature.’