“They raise monuments to the memory of citizens who have died for liberty, and they banish others who wish to fight for it. This does not appear consistent,—unless there are two kinds of liberty, one good and the other bad.”
CHAPTER VII.
Night had come on, which, however, did not disturb Eusebe. He had heard that in Paris night was turned into day,—that Paris was more brilliant at midnight than at noon,—and many other absurdities. While observing the rapid illumination of myriads of gas-lamps, he had begun to think that his provincial anticipations were about to be realized. But when the poor youth, who had spent two hours in hunting a restaurant, wished to find a shelter, he perceived that gaslight fell far short of sunshine. Notwithstanding all the attention he devoted to the multitude of signs, he could nowhere discover the word auberge.
His anxiety was great. He noticed a clock, the hands of which marked the hour of half-past ten. He had never before remained out of bed so late.
He had a strong inclination to ask the pedestrians who passed him where he could find a bed; but his mishaps of the morning were vividly remembered. At length he realized that there was no other course to take, and decided to question the first female who passed him.
“A woman,” thought Eusebe, “will be milder and more accessible than a man.” And as, at this moment, a lady emerged from a neighboring mansion, the provincial ventured to say,—
“Permit me, madame, as a stranger who is very much embarrassed, to ask you for some information.”
The lady passed on without condescending to make any reply.
“I have an awkward address,” said the provincial. “That person is certainly a great and haughty lady. I had better speak to this one, who has the air of a working-woman.”