They had revolutionised the Calendar:  the Citizen-Deputies, and every good citizen of France, called this 19th day of August 1793 the 2nd Fructidor of the year I. of the New Era.

At six o’clock on that afternoon a young girl suddenly turned the angle of the Rue Ecole de Medecine, and after looking quickly to the right and left she began deliberately walking along the narrow street.

It was crowded just then.  Groups of excited women stood jabbering before every doorway.  It was the home-coming hour after the usual spectacle on the Place de la Revolution.  The men had paused at the various drinking booths, crowding the women out.  It would be the turn of these Amazons next, at the brandy bars; for the moment they were left to gossip, and to jeer at the passer-by.

At first the young girl did not seem to heed them.  She walked quickly along, looking defiantly before her, carrying her head erect, and stepping carefully from cobblestone to cobblestone, avoiding the mud, which could have dirtied her dainty shoes.

The harridans passed the time of day to her, and the time of day meant some obscene remark unfit for women’s ears.  The young girl wore a simple grey dress, with fine lawn kerchief neatly folded across her bosom, a large hat with flowing ribbons sat above the fairest face that ever gladdened men’s eyes to see.

Fairer still it would have been, but for the look of determination which made it seem hard and old for the girl’s years.

She wore the tricolour scarf round her waist, else she had been more seriously molested ere now.  But the Republican colours were her safeguard:  whilst she walked quietly along, no one could harm her.

Then suddenly a curious impulse seemed to seize her.  It was just outside the large stone house belonging to Citizen-Deputy Deroulede.  She had so far taken no notice of the groups of women which she had come across.  When they obstructed the footway, she had calmly stepped out into the middle of the road.

It was wise and prudent, for she could close her ears to obscene language and need pay no heed to insult.

Suddenly she threw up her head defiantly.

“Will you please let me pass?” she said loudly, as a dishevelled Amazon stood before her with arms akimbo, glancing sarcastically at the lace petticoat, which just peeped beneath the young girl’s simple grey frock.

“Let her pass?  Let her pass?  Ho! ho! ho!” laughed the old woman, turning to the nearest group of idlers, and apostrophising them with a loud oath.  “Did you know, citizeness, that this street had been specially made for aristos to pass along?”

“I am in a hurry, will you let me pass at once?” commanded the young girl, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground.

There was the whole width of the street on her right, plenty of room for her to walk along.  It seemed positive madness to provoke a quarrel singlehanded against this noisy group of excited females, just home from the ghastly spectacle around the guillotine.