We were in the Hallebarde at the time of this conversation, and the contrast, between the state of the streets on our entry into the town and now, was marked. The expiation was over, and the Loire was carrying down its sluggish current the ashes of the unfortunate victim of a ferocious bigotry. Orleans had returned to its hive, but still the excitement of the awful scene had not passed. The Hallebarde was full, and the shops had reopened, even for the short time that lay between this and the hour, nine o’clock, by which, under the edict, all lights were to be extinguished. The street itself was dim, lit only by stray lanterns, hanging at long intervals, on ropes that ran across from house to house, but the pavement was awake to the tramp of passing feet, and men and women flitted before us like gray shadows, or stood out in bold silhouette against the lights from the doors of a cabaret, or the windows of a shop, or maybe dwelling-house. Every now and again a group of lackeys, with drawn swords and lighted torches, would pass us, escorting the litter of some court lady or priest of rank, and almost at every hundred paces we met a party of mounted men, who went by us with a clattering of arms, and a flashing of steel, while above the insistent hum of voices we often caught a word or phrase, that told us what was the one subject of conversation. They were full of what had happened, and of what was to be. It was, however, in the Rue du Tabourg that a thing occurred that seemed to be an omen of success. We were at the spot where the Cheval Rouge crosses the Tabourg, and were for a moment arrested by a crowd gathered around the entrance to an ordinary, and extending from the door itself almost across the street. As we came up we heard a voice cry out loudly: “Imbeciles! Wait till the 10th. The expiation of our Caillaud will be nothing to that. We will see something on the 10th.” And the speaker, a tall, thin man, with projecting teeth and a wrinkled face, stood in the full glare of the light, swinging his arms over his head. “And what will we see?” questioned a voice from the crowd. The tall man looked around him, and into the darkness. He was about to say something, but the people answered for him: “The Prince! The Prince dies on the 10th!” “The Prince will not die,” answered the voice, and this time I saw as well as heard the speaker. He was on my left, in the shadow of the wall, between my horse and the door of the cabaret, and he was the jester of the Place de Martroi. “How? Why?” exclaimed a dozen voices; but with his odd laugh the jester slipped back, and mingled with the shadow. He seemed, so suddenly did he vanish from my sight, to have melted into air. We pushed through the crowd, who were asking each other eager questions, as to who had answered the tall man in so strange a manner, and as we got clear of them Marcilly remarked: “The laugh I heard reminded me much of the jester we met in the Martroi.”