When the women of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries write their memoirs they boldly present themselves to the reader thus: "I have a well-shaped mouth," said the Marquise of Courcelles, "beautiful lips, pearly teeth, good forehead, cheeks, and expression, finely chiselled throat, divine hands, passable arms (that is to say, they are a little thin); but I find consolation for that misfortune in the fact that I have the prettiest legs in the world."

And I will follow the marquise's example. Here is my portrait: Overskirt of white illusion trimmed with fringe, and three flounces of blond alternating with the fringe; court mantle of cherry silk girt by a high flounce of white blond which falls over the fringe and is caught up by Marie Antoinette satin; two other flounces of blond are placed behind at intervals above; on each side from the waist up are facings composed of little alternating flounces of blond, looped up with satin; the big puff behind is bound by a flounce of white blond. A little white waist, the front and shoulder-straps of which are of satin trimmed with blond. Belt of red satin with large red butterfly.

The world was made in six days, I in three. And yet I too am in the world—a little complicated world of silk, satin, blond, loops, and fringes. Did God rest while he was making the world? I do not know; but I do know that the scissors that cut me out and the needle that sewed me rested neither day nor night from Monday evening, January 24, 1870, to Thursday morning, January 27th. The slashes of the scissors and the pricks of the needle caused me great pain at first, but I soon paid no attention to them at all. I began to observe what was going on, to understand that I was becoming a dress, and to discover that the dress would be a marvel. From time to time M. Worth came himself to pay me little visits. "Take in the waist," he would say, "add more fringe, spread out the train, enlarge the butterfly," etc.

One thing worried me: For whom was I intended? I knew the name, nothing more—the Baroness Z——. Princess would have been better; but still, baroness did very well. I was ambitious. I dreaded the theatre. It remained to be seen whether this baroness was young, pretty, and equal to wearing me boldly, and whether she had a figure to show me off to advantage. I was horribly afraid of falling into the hands of an ugly woman, a provincial, or an old coquette.

How perfectly reassured I was as soon as I saw the baroness! Small, delicate, supple, stylish, a fairy waist, the shoulders of a goddess, and, besides all this, a certain little air of audacity, of raillery, but in exquisite moderation.

I was spread out on a large pearl-gray lounge, and I was received with marks of frank admiration. M. Worth had been good enough to bring me himself, and he didn't trouble himself about all dresses.

"How original!" exclaimed the little baroness; "how new! But very dear, isn't it?"

"One thousand and fifty francs."

"One thousand and fifty francs! And I furnished the lace! Ah, how quickly I should leave you if I didn't owe you so much! For I owe you a lot of money."

"Oh, very little, baroness—very little."

"No, no; a great deal. But we will discuss that another day."

That evening I made my first appearance in society, and I came out at the Tuileries. We both of us, the baroness and myself, had an undeniable success. When the Empress crossed the Salon of Diana, making pleasant remarks to the right and left, she had the graciousness to stop before us and make the following remark, which seemed to me extremely witty, "Ah, baroness, what a dress—what a dress! It's a dream!" On that occasion the Empress wore a dress of white tulle dotted with silver, on a design of cloudy green, with epaulettes of sable. It was queer, not ineffective, but in doubtful taste.

We received much attention, the baroness and I. The new Minister, M. Émile Ollivier, was presented to us; we received him coldly, as the little baroness did not approve, I believe, of liberal reforms, and looked for nothing good from them. We had a long chat on the window-seat with the Marshal Lebœuf. The only topic during that interesting conversation was the execution of Troppmann. It was the great event of the week.

At two o'clock we left—the baroness, I, and the baron. For there was a husband, who for the time being was crowded in the corner of the carriage, and hidden under the mass of my skirts and of my train, which was thrown back on him all in a heap.

"Confess, Edward," said the little baroness—confess that I was pretty to-night."

"Very."

"And my dress?"

"Oh, charming!"

"You say that indolently, without spirit or enthusiasm. I know you well. You think I've been extravagant. Well, indeed I haven't. Do you know how much this dress cost me? Four hundred francs—not a centime more."

We arrived home, which was a step from the Tuileries, in the Place Vendôme. The baron went to his rooms, the baroness to hers; and while Hermance, the maid, cleverly and swiftly untied all my rosettes and took out the pins, the little baroness kept repeating: "How becoming this dress is to me! And I seem to become it, too. I shall wear it on Thursday, Hermance, to go to the Austrian Embassy. Wait a minute, till I see the effect of the butterfly in the back. Bring the lamp nearer; nearer yet. Yes, that's it. Ah, how pretty it is! I am enchanted with this dress, Hermance—really enchanted!"

If the little baroness was enchanted with me, I was equally enchanted with the baroness. We two made the most tender, the most intimate, and the most united of families. We comprehended, understood, and completed each other so well. I had not to do with one of those mechanical dolls—stupidly and brutally laced into a padded corset. Between the little baroness and myself there was absolutely nothing but lace and fine linen. We could confidentially and surely depend on one another. The beauty of the little baroness was a real beauty, without garniture, conjuring, or trickery.

So the following Thursday I went to the Austrian Embassy, and a week later to the Princess Mathilde's. But, alas! the next morning the little baroness said to her maid: "Hermance, take that dress to the reserve. I love it, and I'd wear it every evening; but it has been seen sufficiently for this winter. Yesterday several people said to me, 'Ah, that's your dress of the Tuileries; it's your dress of the Austrian Embassy.' It must be given up till next year. Good-bye, dear little dress."

And, having said that, she placed her charming lips at hap-hazard among my laces and kissed me in the dearest way in the world. Ah, how pleased and proud I was of that childish and sweet fellowship! I remembered that the evening before, on our return, the little baroness had kissed her husband; but the kiss she had given him was a quick, dry kiss—one of those hurried kisses with which one wishes to get through; whereas my kiss had been prolonged and passionate. She had cordiality for the baron, and love for me. The little baroness wasn't twenty, and she was a coquette to the core. I say this, in the first place, to excuse her, and, in the second place, to give an exact impression of her character.

So at noon, in the arms of Hermance, I made my entry to the reserve. It was a dormitory of dresses, an immense room on the third story, very large, and lined with wardrobes of white oak, carefully locked. In the middle of the room was an ottoman, on which Hermance deposited me; after which she slid back ten or twelve wardrobe doors, one after the other. Dresses upon dresses! I should never be able to tell how many. All were hung in the air by silk tape on big triangles. Hermance, however, seemed much embarrassed.

"In the reserve," she murmured, "in the reserve; that is easy to say. But where is there any room? And this one needs a lot." At last Hermance, after having given a number of little taps to the right and left, succeeded in making a sort of slit, into which I had great difficulty in sliding. Hermance gave me and my neighbors some more little taps to lump us together, and then shut the door. Darkness reigned. I was placed between a blue velvet dress and a mauve satin one.

Towards the end of April we received a visit from the little baroness, and in consequence of that visit there was great disturbance. Winter dresses were hung up; spring dresses were got down. At the beginning of July another visit, another disturbance—entry of the costumes from the races; departure of others for the watering-places. I lost my neighbor to the right, the mauve dress, and kept my neighbor on the left, the blue dress, a cross and crabbed person who was forever groaning, complaining, and saying to me, "Oh, my dear, you do take up so much room; do get out of the way a little." I must admit that the poor blue velvet dress was much to be pitied. It was three years old, having been a part of the little baroness's trousseau, and had never been worn. "A high-neck blue velvet dress, at my age, with my shoulders and arms!" had exclaimed the little baroness; "I should look like a grandmother!" Thus it was decreed, and the unfortunate blue dress had gone from the trousseau straight to the reserve.

A week or ten days after the departure of the dresses for Baden-Baden we heard a noise, the voices of women, and all the doors were opened. It was the little baroness, who had brought her friend the Countess N——.

"Sit there, my dear, on that ottoman," said the little baroness. "I have come to look over my dresses. I am very hurried; I arrived but just now from Baden, and I start again to-night for Anjou. We can chatter while Hermance shows me the dresses. Oh, those Prussians, my dear, the monsters! We had to run away, Blanche and myself, like thieves. (Very simple dresses, Hermance, every-day dresses, and walking and boating dresses.) Yes, my dear, like thieves! They threw stones at us, real stones, in the Avenue of Lichtental, and called us 'Rascally Frenchwomen! French rabble!' The Emperor did well to declare war against such people. (Dresses for horseback, Hermance—my brown riding-habit.) At any rate, there's no need to worry. My husband dined yesterday with Guy; you know, the tall Guy, who is an aide of Lebœuf. Well, we are ready, admirably ready, and the Prussians not at all. (Very simple, I said, Hermance. You are showing me ball-dresses. I don't intend to dance during the war.) And then, my dear, it seems that this war was absolutely necessary from a dynastic point of view. I don't quite know why, but I tell it to you as I heard it. (These dozen dresses, Hermance, will be sufficient. But there are thirteen. I never could have thirteen. Take away the green one; or, no, add another—that blue one; that's all.) Now let's go down, my dear."

Whereupon she departed. So war was declared, and with Prussia. I was much moved. I was a French dress and a Bonapartist dress. I was afraid for France and afraid for the dynasty, but the words of the tall Guy were so perfectly reassuring.

For two months there was no news; but about the 10th of September the little baroness arrived with Hermance. She was very pale, poor little baroness—very pale and agitated.

"Dark dresses, Hermance," she said, "black dresses. I know! What remains of Aunt Pauline's mourning? There must remain quite a lot of things. You see, I am too sad—"

"But if madame expects to remain long in England?"

"Ah! as long as the Republic lasts."

"Then it may be a long time."

"What do you mean—a long time? What do you mean, Hermance? Who can tell you such things?"

"It seems to me that if I were madame I'd take for precaution's sake a few winter dresses, a few evening-dresses—"

"Evening-dresses! Why, what are you thinking of? I shall go nowhere, Hermance, alone in England, without my husband, who stays in Paris in the National Guard."

"But if madame should go to see their Majesties in England?"

"Yes, of course I shall, Hermance."

"Well, it's because I know madame's feelings and views that—"

"You are right; put in some evening-dresses."

"Will madame take her last white satin dress?"

"Oh no, not that one; it would be too sad a memory for the Empress, who noticed it at the last ball at the Tuileries. And then the dress wouldn't stand the voyage. My poor white satin dress! Shall I ever wear it again?"

That is why I did not emigrate, and how I found myself blockaded in Paris during the siege. From the few words that we had heard of the conversation of the little baroness and Hermance we had a pretty clear idea of the situation. The Empire was overthrown and the Republic proclaimed. The Republic! There were among us several old family laces who had seen the first Republic—that of '93. The Reign of Terror! Ah, what tales they told us! The fall of the Empire, however, did not displease these old laces, who were all Legitimists or Orleanists. In my neighborhood, on a gooseberry satin skirt, there were four flounces of lace who had had the honor of attending the coronation of Charles X., and who were delighted, and kept saying to us: "The Bonapartes brought about invasion; invasion brings back the Bourbons. Long live Henry V.!"

We all had, however, a common preoccupation. Should we remain in style? We were nearly all startling, risky, and loud—so much so that we were quite anxious, except three or four quiet dresses, velvet and dark cloth dresses, who joined in the chorus with the old laces, and said to us: "Ah, here's an end to the carnival, to this masquerade of an empire! Republic or monarchy, little we care; we are sensible and in good taste." We felt they were somewhat in the right in talking thus. From September to February we remained shut up in the wardrobes, wrangling with each other, listening to the cannon, and knowing nothing of what was going on.

Towards the middle of February all the doors were opened. It was the little baroness—the little baroness!

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "my dresses, my beloved dresses, there they are; how happy I am to see them!"

We could say nothing; but we, too, were very happy to see the little baroness.

"Now, then, Hermance," continued the little baroness, "let us hunt around a little. What can I take to Bordeaux? After such disasters I must have quiet and sombre dresses."

"Madame hasn't very many."

"I beg your pardon, Hermance, I have dark dresses—this one and that one. The blue velvet dress! The blue velvet dress is just the thing, and I've never worn it."

And so my neighbor the blue dress was taken down, and was at last going to make her first appearance in the world. However, the little baroness herself, with great activity, rummaged round in the wardrobes.

"Nothing, nothing," she said; "four or five dresses only. All the rest are impossible, and would not accord with the Government we shall have in Bordeaux. Well, I shall be obliged to have some republican dresses made—very moderate republican, but still republican."

The little baroness went away, to come back a month later, always with Hermance, who was an excellent maid, and much thought of by her mistress. New deliberation.

"Hermance," said the little baroness, "what can I take to Versailles? I think we shall be able to have a little more freedom. There will be receptions and dinners with M. Thiers; then the princes are coming. I might risk transition dresses. Do you know what I mean by that, Hermance—transition dresses?"

"Perfectly, madame—pearl grays, mauves, violets, lilacs."

"Yes, that's it, Hermance; light but quiet colors. You are an invaluable maid. You understand me perfectly."

The little baroness started for Versailles with a collection of transition dresses. There must have been twenty. It was a good beginning, and filled us with hope. She had begun at Bordeaux with sombre colors, and continued on at Versailles with light ones, Versailles was evidently only a stepping-stone between Bordeaux and Paris. The little baroness was soon coming back to Paris, and once the little baroness was in Paris we could feel assured that we should not stay long in the wardrobes.

But it happened that a few days after the departure of the little baroness for Versailles we heard loud firing beneath the windows of the house (we lived in the Place Vendôme). Was it another revolt, another revolution? For a week nothing more was heard; there was silence. Then at the end of that week the cannonade began around Paris worse than ever. Was the war recommencing with the Prussians? Was it a new siege?

The days passed, and the boom of the cannon continued. Finally, one morning there was a great racket in the court-yard of our house. Cries, threats, oaths! The noise came up and up. Great blows with the butt ends of muskets were struck on the wardrobe doors. They were smashed in and we perceived eight or ten slovenly looking, dirty, and bearded men. Among these men was a woman, a little brunette; fairly pretty, I must say, but queerly gotten up. A black dress with a short skirt, little boots with red bows, a round gray felt hat with a large red plume, and a sort of red scarf worn crosswise. It was a peculiar style, but it was style all the same.

"Oh, oh!" exclaimed the little woman, "here's luck! What a lot of dresses! Well, clear away all this, sergeant, and take those duds to headquarters."

Then all those men threw themselves upon us with a sort of fury. We felt ourselves gripped and dishonored by coarse, dirty hands.

"Don't soil them too much, citizens," the little woman would cry. "Do them up in packages, and take the packages down to the ammunition-wagon."

The headquarters was the apartment of the young lady of the red plume. Our new mistress was the wife of a general of the Commune. We were destined to remain official dresses. Official during the Empire, and official during the Commune. The first thought of Mme. General was to hold a review of us, and I had the honor of being the object of her special attention and admiration.

"Ah, look, Émile!" (Émile was the General.) "Look! this is the toniest of the whole concern. I'll keep it for the Tuileries."

I was to be kept for the Tuileries! What tales of woe and what lamentations there were in the sort of alcove where we were thrown like rags! Mme. General went into society every evening, and never put on the same dress twice. My poor companions the day after told me their adventures of the day before. This one had dined at Citizen Raoul Rigault's, the Préfecture of Police; that one attended a performance of "Andromaque" at the Théâtre Français, in the Empress's box, etc. At last it was my turn. The 17th of May was the day of the grand concert at the Tuileries.

Oh, my dear little baroness, what had become of you? Where were your long soft muslin petticoats and your fine white satin corsets? Where were your transparent linen chemisettes? Mme. General had coarse petticoats of starched calico. Mme. General wore such a corset! Mme. General had such a crinoline! My poor skirts of lace and satin were abominably stiffened and tossed about by the hard crinoline hoops. As to the basque, the strange thing happened that the basque of the little baroness was much too tight for Mme. General at the waist, and, on the contrary, above the waist it was—I really do not know how to explain such things. At any rate, it was just the opposite of small, so much so that it had to be padded. Horrible! Most horrible!

At ten that evening I was climbing for the second time the grand staircase of the Tuileries, in the midst of a dense and ignoble mob. One of the General's aides-de-camp tried in vain to open a passage.

"Room, room, for the wife of the General!" he cried.

Much they cared for the wife of the General! Great big boots trampled on my train, sharp spurs tore my laces, and the bones of the corsets of Mme. General hurt me terribly.

At midnight I returned to Mme. General's den. I returned in rags, shreds, soiled, dishonored, and stained with wine, tobacco, and mud. A hateful little maid brutally tore me from the shoulders of Mme. General, and said to her mistress:

"Well, madame, was it beautiful?"

"No, Victoria," replied Mme. General, "it was too mixed. But do hurry up! tear it off if it won't come. I know where to find others at the same price."

And I was thrown like a rag on a heap of pieces. The heap of pieces was composed of ball-dresses of the little baroness.

One morning, three or four days later, the aide-de-camp rushed in, crying, "The Versaillists! The Versaillists are in Paris!"

Thereupon Mme. General put on a sort of military costume, took two revolvers, filled them with cartridges, and hung them on a black leather belt which she wore around her waist. "Where is the General?" she said to the aide-de-camp.

"At the Tuileries."

"Very well, I shall go there with you." And on that she departed, with her little gray felt hat jauntily tilted over her ear.

The cannonade and firing redoubled and came nearer. Evidently there was fighting very near us, quite close to us. The next day towards noon we saw them both come back, the General and Mme. General. And in what a condition! Panting, frightened, forbidding, with clothes white with dust, and hands and faces black with powder. The General was wounded in the left hand, he had twisted around his wrist a handkerchief bathed in blood.

"Does your arm hurt you?" Mme. General said to him.

"It stings a little, that's all."

"Are they following us?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Listen! There are noises, shouts."

"Look out of the window without showing yourself."

"The red trousers! They are here!"

"Lock and bolt the door. Get the revolvers and load them. I can't on account of my arm. This wound is a bore."

"You are so pale!"

"Yes; I am losing blood—a good deal of blood."

"They are coming up the stairs!"

"Into the alcove—let us go into the alcove, on the dresses."

"Here they are!"

"Give me the revolver."

The door gave way violently under the hammering of the butts of the guns. A shower of bullets fell on us and around us. The General, with a single movement, fell heavily at full length on the bed of silk, muslin, and laces that we made for him. Three or four men with red trousers threw themselves on Mme. General, who fought, bit, and screamed, "Assassins! assassins!"

A soldier tore away the bell-cord, firmly tied her hands, and carried her away like a bundle. She continued to repeat, in a strangled voice, "Assassins! assassins!" The soldiers approached the alcove and looked at the General. "As to him," they said, "he's done for; he doesn't need anything more. Let's be off."

They left us, and we remained there for two days, crushed beneath that corpse and covered with blood. Finally, at the end of those two days, a man arrived who was called a Commissioner, and who wore a tricolored scarf around his waist. "This corpse has been forgotten," he said. "Take it away."

They tried to lift the body, but with fingers stiffened by death the General held my big cherry satin butterfly. They had nearly to break his fingers to get it out.

Meantime the Commissioner examined and searched curiously among that brilliant heap of rags on which the General had died. My waist appeared to catch his eye. "Here is a mark," he said to one of his men—"a mark inside the waist, with the name and number of the maker. We can learn where these dresses came from. Wrap this waist in a newspaper and I'll take it."

They wrapped me in an old number of the Official Journal of the Commune. The following day we went to M. Worth, the Commissioner and I. The conversation was not long.

"Was this dress made by you?" the Commissioner asked.

"Yes; here's the mark."

"And for whom was it made?"

"Number 18,223. Wait a moment; I'll consult my books." The dress-maker came back in five minutes, and said to the Commissioner, "It was for the Baroness Z—— that I made this dress, eighteen months ago, and it isn't paid for."

"Prisoner," said the President of the Council of War, "have you anything to add in your defence?"

"Yes, colonel," replied the prisoner. "The little lawyer you assigned me defended me according to his idea; I want to defend myself according to mine.

"My name is Martin (Lewis Joseph). I am fifty-five years old. My father was a locksmith. He had a little shop in the upper part of the Saint-Martin Quarter, and had a fair business. We just existed. I learned to read in the National, which was, I believe, the paper of M. Thiers.

"On the 27th of July, 1830, my father went out very early. That evening, at ten o'clock, he was brought back to us on a litter, dying. He had received a bullet in the chest. Beside him on the litter was his musket.

"'Take it,' he said to me. 'I give it to you; and every time there is a riot, be against the Government—always, always, always!'

"An hour later he was dead. I went out in the night. At the first barricade I stopped and offered myself; a man examined me by the light of a lantern. 'A child!' he exclaimed. I was not fifteen. I was very slight and undersized. I answered: 'A child, maybe, but my father was killed two hours ago. He gave me his musket. Teach me how to use it.'

"From that moment I became what I have always been for forty years, an insurgent! If I fought during the Commune, it was not because I was forced, nor for the thirty sous; it was from taste, from pleasure, from habit, from routine.

"In 1830 I behaved rather bravely at the attack on the Louvre. The urchin who first scaled the gate beneath the bullets of the Swiss was I. I received the Medal of July. But the shopkeepers gave us a king. It had all to be done over. I joined a secret society; I learned to melt bullets, to make powder—in short, I completed my education, and I waited.

"I had to wait nearly two years. On June 5, 1832, at noon, in front of the Madeleine, I was the first to unharness one of the horses of the hearse of General Lamarque. I passed the day in shouting, 'Long live Lafayette!' and I passed the night in making barricades. The next morning we were attacked by the regulars. In the evening, towards four o'clock, we were blocked, cannonaded, swept with grape-shot, and crushed back into the Church of Saint-Méry. I had a bullet and three bayonet-stabs in my body when I was picked up by the soldiers from the stone floor of a little chapel to the left—the Chapel of St. John. I have often gone back to that little chapel—not to pray, I wasn't brought up with such ideas—but to see the stains of my blood which still remain on the stones.

"On account of my youth I received a ten-year sentence. I was sent to Mont Saint-Michel. That was why I didn't take part in the riots of 1834. If I had been free I should have fought in Rue Transnonian as I had fought in Rue Saint-Méry—'against the Government—always, always, always!' It was my father's last word; it was my gospel, my religion. I call that my catechism in six words. I came out of prison in 1842, and I again began to wait.

"The revolution of '48 was made without effort. The shopkeepers were stupid and cowardly. They were neither for nor against us. The municipal guards alone defended themselves. We had a little trouble in taking the guard-house of the Château d'Eau. On the evening of February 24th I remained three or four hours on the square before the Hôtel de Ville. The members of the Provisional Government, one after another, made speeches to us—said that we were heroes, great citizens, the foremost nation in the world, that we had broken the bonds of tyranny. After having fed us on these fine speeches, they gave us a republic which wasn't any better than the monarchy we had overthrown.

"In June I took up my musket again, but on that occasion we were not successful. I was arrested, sentenced, and sent to Cayenne. It seems that I behaved well there. One day I saved a captain of marines from drowning. Observe that I should most certainly have shot at that captain if he had been on one side of a barricade and I on the other; but a man who is drowning, dying—in short, I received my pardon, I came back to France in 1852, after the Coup d'État; I had missed the insurrection of 1851.

"At Cayenne I had made friends with a tailor named Barnard. Six months after my departure for France, Barnard died. I went to see his widow. She was in want. I married her. We had a son in 1854—you will understand presently why I speak to you of my wife and my son. But you must already suspect that an insurgent who marries the widow of an insurgent does not have royalist children.

"Under the Empire there was nothing to do. The police were very strict. We were dispersed, disarmed. I worked, I brought up my son with the ideas that my father had given me. The wait was long. Rochefort, Gambetta, public reunions—all that put us in motion again.

"On the first important occasion I showed myself. I was one of that little band who assaulted the barracks of the firemen of Villette. Only there we made a mistake. We killed a fireman, unnecessarily, I was caught and thrown into prison, but the Government of the Fourth of September liberated us, from which I concluded that we did right to attack those barracks and kill the fireman, even unnecessarily.

"The siege began. I immediately opposed the Government, on the side of the Commune. I marched against the Hôtel de Ville on the 31st of October and on the 22d of January. I liked revolt for revolt's sake. An insurgent—I told you in the beginning I am an insurgent. I cannot hear a discussion without taking part, nor see a riot without running to it, nor a barricade without bringing my paving-stone. It's in the blood.

"And then, besides, I wasn't quite ignorant, and I said to myself, It is only necessary to succeed thoroughly some day, and then, in our turn, we shall be the Government, and it will be better than with all these lawyers, who place themselves behind us during the battle, and pass ahead after the victory.'

"The 18th of March came, and naturally I was in it. I shouted 'Hurrah for the regulars!' I fraternized with the army. I went to the Hôtel de Ville. I found a government already at work. It was absolutely the same as on the 24th of February.

"Now you tell me that that insurrection was not lawful. That is possible, but I don't quite see why not. I begin to get muddled—about these insurrections which are a duty and those which are a crime! I do not clearly see the difference.

"I shot at the Versailles troops in 1871, as I had shot at the royal guard in 1830 and on the municipals in 1848. After 1830 I received the Medal of July; after 1848 the compliments of M. de Lamartine. This time I am going to get transportation or death.

"There are insurrections which please you. You raise columns to them, you give their names to streets, you give yourselves the offices, the promotions, and the big salaries, and we folks, who made the revolution, you call us great citizens, heroes, a nation of brave men, etc. That's the coin we are paid with.

"And then there are other insurrections which displease you. As a result, transportation, death. Well, you see, if you hadn't complimented us so after the first ones, perhaps we wouldn't have made the last. If you hadn't raised the Column of July at the entrance of our neighborhood, we wouldn't perhaps have gone and demolished the Vendôme Column in your neighborhood. Those two penny trumpets didn't agree. One had to upset the other, and that is what happened.

"Now, why I threw away my captain's uniform on the 26th of May, why I was in a blouse when I was arrested, I will tell you. When I learned that the gentlemen of the Commune, instead of coming to shoot with us behind the barricades, were at the Hôtel de Ville distributing among themselves thousand-franc notes, were shaving their beards, dyeing their hair, and hiding themselves in caves, I did not wish to keep the shoulder-straps they had given me.

"Besides, shoulder-straps embarrassed me. 'Captain Martin' sounded idiotic. 'Insurgent Martin'—why, that's well and good. I wanted to end as I had begun, die as my father had died, as a rioter in a riot, as a barricader behind a barricade.

"I could not get killed. I got caught. I belong to you. But I wish to beg a favor of you. I have a son, a child of seventeen; he is at Cherbourg, on the hulks. He fought, it is true, and he does not deny it; but it is I who put a musket in his hand, it is I who told him that his duty was there. He listened to me. He obeyed me. That is all his crime. Do not sentence him too harshly.

"As for me, you have got me; do not let me go, that's the advice I give you. I am too old to mend; and then, what can you expect? Nothing can change it. I was born on the wrong side of the barricade."

In the beginning of the year 1870 some English and French residents had been massacred in China. Reparation was demanded. His Excellency Tchong-Keon, Tutor of the Heir-apparent and Vice-President of the War Department, was sent to Europe as Ambassador Extraordinary to the English and French governments.

Tchong-Keon has recently published at Pekin a very curious account of his voyage. One of my friends who lives in Shanghai, and who possesses the rare talent of being able to read Chinese easily, sent me this faithful translation of a part of Tchong-Keon's book:

HAVRE, September 12, 1870.

I land, and I make myself known. I am the Ambassador of the Emperor of China. I bear apologies to the Emperor of the French, and presents to the Empress. There is no Emperor and no Empress. A Republic has been proclaimed. I am much embarrassed. Shall I offer the apologies and presents that were intended for the Empire to the Republic?

HAVRE, September 14, 1870.

After much reflection, I shall offer the apologies and keep the presents.

HAVRE, September 26, 1870.

Yes; but to whom shall I carry the apologies, and to whom shall I present them? The Government of the French Republic is divided in two: there is one part in Paris and one part in Tours. To go to Paris is not to be thought of. Paris is besieged and blockaded by the Prussians. I shall go to Tours.

HAVRE, October 2, 1870.

I did not go, and I shall not go, to Tours. I received yesterday a visit from the correspondent of the Times, a most agreeable and sensible man. I told him that I intended going to Tours.

"To Tours! What do you want in Tours?"

"To present the apologies of my master to the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the French Republic."

"But that minister isn't in Tours."

"And where is he?"

"Blockaded in Paris."

A Minister of Foreign Affairs who is blockaded in a besieged town seemed to me most extraordinary.

"And why," the correspondent of the Times asked me, "do you bring apologies to the French Government?"

"Because we massacred some French residents."

"French residents! That's of no importance nowadays. France no longer exists. You can, if it amuses you, throw all the French residents into the sea."

"We also thoughtlessly massacred some English residents."

"You massacred some English residents! Oh, that's very different! England is still a great nation. And you have brought apologies to Queen Victoria?"

"Yes, apologies and presents."

"Go to London, go straight to London, and don't bother about France; there is no France."

The correspondent of the Times looked quite happy when he spoke those words: "there is no France."

LONDON, October 10, 1870.

I've seen the Queen of England. She received me very cordially. She has accepted the apologies; she has accepted the presents.