VI
Revolution
The night was blusterous with sudden squalls and gusts of rain, and intervals when the full moon rode serene among scurrying clouds. It being past midnight, Paris slept, but slept lightly, for the period was that of the autumn of 1793. Few wayfarers were to be seen, and those who were about moved both quickly and warily as though engaged on business of danger and despatch.
At a corner of the Rue S. Michael two men, coming from opposite directions, were caught by the full force of an eddying blast, and in a moment two hats were careering along the street with their owners in angry pursuit. Each man seized the first that came to hand, crammed it upon his head more firmly than before, and sought the nearest doorway to regain breath and composure before continuing his journey. Then, as they had taken refuge beneath the same arch, each began to regard the other, as men mostly did in those days, a little suspiciously at first.
"A stormy night, citizen," remarked the more sociable of the two.
"Stormy times altogether," replied the other. "But surely, citizen, your voice is somehow familiar to me. Bless my soul, it cannot be?"
"Philippe Buton, citizen. And you?"
"Dumont—your old friend of the office in the Place
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