Then came Buonaparte and the
Directory, mixed with Pyramids and Alps.
In the middle of the room stood a very large table. At the one end
were the bookbinder's tools; at the other, writing materials. The
inkstand was a skull; the ruler was a fore-arm; the paper-weight was
a guillotine, and the penholder a rib.
The bookbinder himself, a centenarian, with an apostolic beard, sat
and wrote under a lantern which hung from the roof. He was the only
person visible in the room. Outside it was stormy, and the
roof-plates rattled from time to time; it was cool in the room, but
not cold, for a stove was lit in a corner, where lay the watchman's
belongings--a great wolfskin fur-coat, a speaking trumpet, some
flags, and a lantern with variously coloured glass sides.
The old man pushed his glasses up his forehead, looked up, and
spoke, though the person with whom he talked could not be seen.
"Are you hungry?"
A voice behind the bookcase answered: "Fairly so."
"Are you cold?"
"No, not yet."
"Wait a little; I must just go outside and make an observation."
"What are you writing?"
"My reminiscences."
"Is it quiet in the town?"
"Yes, but they have gone out to Saint Cloud."
"Then it will soon come to shooting."
"It won't come to shooting, but we may expect a proclamation.
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