Greater changes have passed over the firmament of France.
What was revolt five years ago is Revolution now--revolution
which has ingulfed thrones, and principalities, and powers; which
has set up crownless, inhereditary kings and counselors of its
own, and has bloodily torn them down again by dozens; which has
raged and raged on unrestrainedly in fierce earnest, until but
one king can still govern and control it for a little while. That
king is named Terror, and seventeen hundred and ninety-four is
the year of his reign.
Monsieur Lomaque, land-steward no longer, sits alone in an
official-looking room in one of the official buildings of Paris.
It is another July evening, as fine as that evening when he and
Trudaine sat talking together on the bench overlooking the Seine.
The window of the room is wide open, and a faint, pleasant
breeze is beginning to flow through it. But Lomaque breathes
uneasily, as if still oppressed by the sultry midday heat; and
there are signs of perplexity and trouble in his face as he looks
down absently now and then into the street.
The times he lives in are enough of themselves to sadden any
man's face. In the Reign of Terror no living being in all the
city of Paris can rise in the morning and be certain of escaping
the spy, the denunciation, the arrest, or the guillotine, before
night. Such times are trying enough to oppress any man's spirits;
but Lomaque is not thinking of them or caring for them now.
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