Yesterday, February 22, I went to the Chamber of Peers. The weather was
fine and very cold, in spite of the noonday sun. In the Rue de Tournon I
met a man in the custody of two soldiers. The man was fair, pale, thin,
haggard; about thirty years old; he wore coarse linen trousers; his
bare and lacerated feet were visible in his sabots, and blood-stained
bandages round his ankles took the place of stockings; his short blouse
was soiled with mud in the back, which indicated that he habitually
slept on the ground; his head was bare, his hair dishevelled. Under his
arm was a loaf. The people who surrounded him said that he had stolen
the loaf, and it was for this that he had been arrested.
When they reached the gendarmerie barracks one of the soldiers entered,
and the man stayed at the door guarded by the other soldier.
A carriage was standing at the door of the barracks. It was decorated
with a coat of arms; on the lanterns was a ducal coronet; two grey
horses were harnessed to it; behind it were two lackeys. The windows
were raised, but the interior, upholstered in yellow damask, was
visible. The gaze of the man fixed upon this carriage, attracted mine.
In the carriage was a woman in a pink bonnet and costume of black
velvet, fresh, white, beautiful, dazzling, who was laughing and playing
with a charming child of sixteen months, buried in ribbons, lace and
furs.
This woman did not see the terrible man who was gazing at her.