“We’ll take our blades wid us,” said the Irish dragoon; “the civil authorities of Paris don’t look out for things very well, so I’ve heard, Master Ethan, and as there are lots of cut-purses in all big cities we’d as well be on the safe side.”
Paris of pre-revolutionary days was vastly different from the present city. Its poor, like those of the country places, were poor indeed, while its rich were magnificently superior in manner and most splendid in dress. Squalor and grandeur were to be seen on every hand; the noisome dens of the Faubourg San Antoine, which less than a score of years afterward were to hurl their hordes of red-capped, blood-hungry maniacs into the vortex of the “Terror,” and the beautiful structures of the rich were not far separated. Ethan and Longsword, as they walked about, wondered how such a state of things could exist among a people apparently so highly schooled in all the refinements of civilization.
Evening drew on and still they were afoot; both began to grow somewhat hungry.
“I think,” said Ethan, “that we had better be getting back to our lodgings.”
“I’ve been thinking that same for some time,” said Longsword. “A rasher of bacon and eggs, as that landlady cooks them, would be mighty comforting, so it would.”
They proceeded along for some time; then their progress became a hesitating sort of thing, and at last they stopped.
“Shamus,” asked Ethan, a laugh in his voice, “where do we live?”
“Faith, then, Master Ethan, I don’t know. Ye see I have no French, and these bla’guard names that they give these streets get the better of me.”
“Then,” said Ethan, “we are lost.”
“But we can ask some one the way.”