the tumbril proceeded at a crawl, and the people surging about
the cart screamed death and insult at the doomed woman. It took
two hours to reach the Place de la Revolution, and meanwhile a
terrific summer thunderstorm had broken over Paris, and a
torrential rain had descended upon the densely packed streets.
Charlotte's garments were soaked through and through, so that her
red smock, becoming glued now to her body and fitting her like a
skin, threw into relief its sculptural beauty, whilst a
reflection of the vivid crimson of the garment faintly tinged her
cheeks, and thus heightened her appearance of complete composure.

And it is now in the Rue St. Honore that at long last we reach
the opening of our tragic love-story.

A tall, slim, fair young man, named Adam Lux--sent to Paris by the
city of Mayence as Deputy Extraordinary to the National Convention--
was standing there in the howling press of spectators. He was an
accomplished, learned young gentleman, doctor at once of philosophy
and of medicine, although in the latter capacity he had never
practiced owing to an extreme sensibility of nature, which rendered
anatomical work repugnant to him. He was a man of a rather exalted
imagination, unhappily married--the not uncommon fate of such
delicate temperaments--and now living apart from his wife. He had
heard, as all Paris had heard, every detail of the affair, and of
the trial, and he waited there, curious to see this woman, with
whose deed he was secretly in sympathy.

The tumbril slowly approached, the groans and execrations swelled
up around him, and at last he beheld her--beautiful, serene, full
of life, a still smile upon her lips. For a long moment he gazed