Germain des Pres, a horrible throng pressed by him,
holding high in their midst a head on a dripping pike. He turned away,
sick at the sight, and, making his way down by the quays, crossed by the
Pont Royal to the other side of the city. He stopped for an instant on
the bridge to look down the river, and, as he did so, he recalled that
Christmas Eve two years before when he and Mr. Morris had stood on that
same spot. Much, very much, had happened since; it seemed as if both a
long and a short time had elapsed; perhaps, the greatest difference he
felt was that then he had been eager to leave Paris; now he was relieved
to be back. He strolled along under the glittering stars and the
fast-sailing clouds, through ill-lighted streets and past deserted
mansions whose owners were in voluntary exile beyond the Rhine, until he
suddenly bethought himself of a little cafe in the Champs Elysees not
far from the Demi-Lune du Cours de la Reine, where he and Mr. Jefferson
and Mr. Morris had often gone together. It occurred to him that he was
both thirsty and a little tired, and that he would turn in there for
something to drink and to see what might be happening.
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