So they set off in the keen morning air, accompanied by four grenadiers of the Section. "Have you seen '_The Last Judgment of Kings_' played?" Delourmel asked his companions; "the piece is worth seeing. The author shows you all the Kings of Europe on a desert island where they have taken refuge, at the foot of a volcano which swallows them up. It is a patriotic work." At the corner of the Rue du Harlay Delourmel's eye was caught by a little cart, as brilliantly painted as a reliquary, which an old woman was pushing, wearing over her coif a hat of waxed cloth. "What is that old woman selling?" he asked. The old dame answered for herself: "Look, gentlemen, make your choice. I have beads and rosaries, crosses, St. Anthonys, holy cerecloths, St. Veronica handkerchiefs, _Ecce homos_, _Agnus Deis_, hunting-horns and rings of St. Hubert, and articles of devotion of every sort and kind." "Why, it is the very arsenal of fanaticism!" cried Delourmel in horror,--and he proceeded to a summary examination of the poor woman, who made the same answer to every question: "My son, it's forty years I have been selling articles of devotion." Another Delegate of the Committee of General Security, noticing a blue-coated National Guard passing, directed him to convey the astonished old woman to the Conciergerie. The _citoyen_ Beauvisage pointed out to Delourmel that it would have been more in the competence of the Committee of Surveillance to arrest the woman and bring her before the Section; that in any case, one never knew nowadays what attitude to take up towards the old religion so as to act up to the views of the Government, and whether it was best to allow everything or forbid everything. On nearing the joiner's shop, the delegates and the commissary could hear angry shouts mingling with the hissing of the saw and the grinding of the plane. A quarrel had broken out between the joiner, Dupont senior, and his neighbour Remacle, the porter, because of the _citoyenne_ Remacle, whom an irresistible attraction was for ever drawing into the recesses of the workshop, whence she would return to the porter's lodge all covered with shavings and saw-dust. The injured porter bestowed a kick on Mouton, the carpenter's dog, which at that very moment his own little daughter Josephine was nursing lovingly in her arms. Josephine was furious and burst into a torrent of imprecations against her father, while the carpenter shouted in a voice of exasperation: "Wretch! I tell you you shall not beat my dog." "And I," retorted the porter brandishing his broom, "I tell you you shall _not_...." He did not finish the sentence; the joiner's plane had hurtled close past his head. The instant he caught sight of the _citoyen_ Beauvisage and the attendant delegates, he rushed up to him and cried: "_Citoyen_ Commissary you are my witness, this villain has just tried to murder me."