"I believe he applauded me, Agesilaus, didn't he?" asked Lorin.
"He certainly did, Citizen; and no wonder, for those were very pretty verses that you repeated."
"He is worse than I thought him," said Lorin, in his turn descending the staircase in rather a calmer mood. Arthémise was not Geneviève.
Hardly had Lorin and his orange blossom arrived at the Rue Saint Honoré, when a crowd of young citizens, to whom he had been accustomed to administer either kicks or half-pence, according to his humor, respectfully followed him,—mistaking him, no doubt, for one of those virtuous individuals to whom Saint Just had proposed that people should offer a white robe and a bunch of orange blossoms.
As the cortège every moment increased in numbers,—for even at this epoch a virtuous man was a rare sight to behold,—there were several thousand young citizens present when the bouquet was offered to Arthémise, a homage which made several other "Reasons" who had joined the ranks very ill with sick headache next day. It was on the same evening that the famous distich was circulated through Paris,—
"Long life to Goddess Reason—
The pure, clear dawn of day."
And as it has come down to us without any knowledge of the author,—a fact which has powerfully exercised the sagacity of revolutionary archæologists,—we have almost the audacity to affirm that it was composed for the fair Arthémise by our friend, Hyacinthe Lorin.