On the ground-floor of the house of my neighbour there is an
upholsterer’s workshop. The day before yesterday the master went out to
fetch some work, and this morning he had not yet returned. In an agony
of apprehension his wife went everywhere in search of him. His body has
just been found at the Morgue with a bullet through its head. Some say
he was walking across the Rue de la Paix on his way home, and was shot
by accident; but the _Journal Officiel_ announces that this poor man,
Wahlin, was a national guard, assassinated by the revolvers of the
manifestation. Whom are we to believe? Anyhow, the man is to be buried
tomorrow, and his poor wife is a widow.