and anarchist of the first water, and disorganiser of despotism for twenty years in both hemispheres." Madame Dubarry, who had already dismissed one treacherous servant, now dismissed Zamore also. In September, Grieve secured a fresh warrant against her, and singularly enough rode part of the way to Paris in the hackney carriage with her. What passed between them is a mystery. Was he enamoured of her, and repelled with horror, or did he offer life and liberty if she disgorged? In any case it is strange that Madame Dubarry, whose last lover but one had been an Englishman—Henry Seymour, nephew of the Duke of Somerset, the Sunday evening dancing in whose park at Prunay was remembered by old women still living in 1870—should have been hunted to death by another Englishman. The inhabitants again obtained her release, but in November she was a third time arrested. Grieve superintended the search for her jewels concealed in dungheaps, and got up the case against her. Not merely did he collect evidence, but he was himself a witness, and had it not been for his relentless persecution it seems likely that she would have been left unmolested.
Grieve was to have dined with Marat the very day the latter was assassinated. To dine with Marat sounds anything but tempting. Marat's squalor was, however, all external, an affair of parade, for he liked comfort and good fare. Grieve unwarrantably
