ABSTRACT
Karl Marx was heading to the Cafe de la Regence near the Tuileries Gardens. He was walking along the Quai des Tuileries with the garden to his left and the Seine to his right toward the Louvre. It was August, and it was hot. The Seine smelled, and flies were buzzing about the rotting decay of summer. Marx wore a white cotton shirt with a soiled, wrinkled bright red cravat and tattered gray waistcoat that was missing a button. His sleeves were stained at the armpits. He thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of his thin, light gray trousers, which were shiny at the knees. A rolled-up newspaper stuck out of his back pocket. Karl leaned back in his wrought iron chair. The metal loops that formed its back cut into his shoulder blades. He decided to unwrap the newspaper he had been carrying in his pant pocket and to light up a cigar.
