Little as Martin had seen of Massingbred,--they were but Club acquaintances of a few weeks back,--he believed that he was one of those smart, versatile men who, with abundance of social ability, acquire reputation for higher capacity than they possess; but, above all, he never gave him credit for anything like a settled purpose or a stern resolution. It was, then, with considerable astonishment that he now heard him avow this deadly determination with all the composure that could vouch for its sincerity. There was, however, little time to think of these things. The course they were driven to follow, by by-streets and alleys, necessitated a long and difficult way. The great thoroughfares which they crossed at intervals were entirely in the possession of the troops, who challenged them as they approached, and only suffered them to proceed when well satisfied with their account. The crowds had all dispersed, and to the late din and tumult there had succeeded the deep silence of a city sunk in sleep, only broken by the hoarse call of the sentinels, or the distant tramp of a patrol. “It is all over, I suppose,” said Martin. “The sight of the eight-pounders and the dark caissons has done the work.” “I don't think so,” said Massingbred, “nor do the troops think so. These mobs are not like ours in England, who, with plenty of individual courage, are always poltroons in the mass. These fellows understand fighting as an art, know how to combine their movements, arrange the modes of attack or defence, can measure accurately the means of resistance opposed to them, and, above all, understand how to be led,--something far more difficult than it seems. In _my_ good borough of Oughterard,--or yours, rather, Martin, for I have only a loan of it,--a few soldiers--the army, as they would call them--would sweep the whole population before them. Our countrymen can get up a row, these fellows can accomplish a revolt,--there's the difference.” “And have they any real, substantial grievance that demands such an expiation?” “Who knows?” said he, laughingly. “There never was a Government too bad to live under,--there never was one exempt from great vices. Half the political disturbances the world has witnessed have arisen from causes remote from State Government; a deficient harvest, a dear loaf, the liberty of the Press invaded,--a tyranny always resented by those who can't read,--are common causes enough. But here we are now at the Place Vendôme, and certainly one should say the odds are against the people.” Massingbred said truly. Two battalions of infantry, with a battery of guns in position, were flanked by four squadrons of Cuirassiers, the formidable array filling the entire “Place,” and showing by their air and attitude their readiness for any eventuality. A chance acquaintance with one of the staff enabled Massingbred and Martin to pass through their lines and arrive at their hotel.