"A man," he says, "of middle height, with an energetic countenance, and wearing a general's uniform, was crossing the Marché des Innocents, followed by a great number of armed men. M. Évariste Dumoulin[257], editor of the _Constitutionnel_, had supplied this man with his uniform, obtained at an old-clothes shop; and the epaulets which he wore had been given him by Perlet[258], the actor: they came from the property-room of the Opéra-Comique. "'Who is that general?" was asked on every hand. "And when they who surrounded him answered, 'It is General Dubourg,' 'Long live General Dubourg!' cried the people, who had never heard the name before[259]." A few paces further, a different sight awaited me: a ditch had been dug before the colonnade of the Louvre; a priest, in surplice and stole, was praying beside the ditch: they were laying dead bodies in it. I took off my hat and made the sign of the cross. The silent crowd stood respectfully watching the ceremony, which would have been nothing if religion had not appeared in it. So many memories and reflections presented themselves to my mind that I remained quite motionless. Suddenly I felt myself being crowded round; a cry arose: "Long live the defender of the liberty of the press!" I had been recognised by my hair. Forthwith some young men caught hold of me and said: "Which way are you going? We are going to carry you." I did not know what to answer; I begged to be excused; I struggled; I entreated them to let me go. The time fixed for the meeting in the House of Peers had not yet come. The young men kept on shouting: "Which way are you going? Which way are you going?" I replied at random: "Well, to the Palais-Royal!" Forthwith I was escorted there, amid cries of "The Charter for ever! The liberty of the press for ever! Chateaubriand for ever!" In the Cour des Fontaines, M. Barba[260], the bookseller, left his house and came to embrace me. We arrived at the Palais-Royal; I was plumped down in a café under the wooden arcade. I was dying with heat. With clasped hands I reiterated my request for remission of my glory: not a bit of it; the whole of that youth refused to leave hold of me. In the crowd was a man in a waistcoat-jacket with the sleeves turned up, with black hands, a sinister face and gleaming eyes, such as I had seen so often at the commencement of the Revolution: he continually tried to approach me, and the young men always thrust him back. I learnt neither his name nor what he wanted with me.