he was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick succession; the minister, the state-projector, the farmer-general, the doctor, the lawyer, the ecclesiastic, the grand opera, the comedy, the whole fancy ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. the rats had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through which they peeped. the father had long ago taken up his bundle and bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running of the water and the rolling of the fancy ball when the one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness of fate. the water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their dark holes again, the fancy ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran their course.