We are impatient of silence, it kills our courage, we must make a noise, move about, appear to be doing something. When soldiers feel the death-qualm come over them, they empty their cartridge-boxes at imaginary foes; and we fire off whole volleys of abuse. "We shall burn Paris, we shall blow it up. The catacombs are mined, and Paris shall be the grave of her enemies." Couple with this our strong conviction of our own invincibility, our sanguineness of hope, our short and easy method of explaining away defeat to our own advantage, our belief in changing of names, in prestige, and prestidigitation. By the great mass the Republic has been accepted as the Deus ex machind of victory. It is not France, but the Empire, that has suffered defeat; but now, "nous avons changé tout cela;" our armies are republican, and we make a fresh start. We live fast, and our imagination is quick to colour men and things alike in the hues of our newest fancies: a patch of rouge here, and a puff of powder there, and Paris appears in a new character, -her siege-toilet completed, her Phrygian bonnet cocked resolutely on one side-waiting for the foe, and counting the minutes on the clock.

CHAPTER II.

HOW WE SIMMERED IN OUR OWN GRAVY."

Tuesday, September 20th.-Yesterday, we heard in our quiet avenue the first authentic peal of cannon, so long and anxiously expected. Reports of fighting in the direction of Clamart were in circulation all the morning. A little before noon we saw the cuirassiers returning, at a slow pace, to their quarters in the Champ de Mars. We looked in vain amongst them for traces of the fight, as they sat their wellgroomed chargers with the supreme indifference of old troopers their bright helmets and cuirasses glittering quite new in the sunshine. But the sight was soon to change. A crowd of fugitives came pouring down the main avenues which lead from Montrouge and Chatillon to the quarters of the left bank. Mingled with them, in wild confusion, a troop of mounted gendarmes dashed furiously through a long train of military carts and ambulance-waggons filled with wounded men; they spurred onwards to arrest the flight of the infantry,

themselves joining in the general flight. Disbanded Zouaves were explaining to the people, with much gesticulation, how they had "retreated "-not from want of courage, that was simply impossible, but because they had fallen short of ammunition; and some had the barefacedness to show their cartridgeboxes, which, on closer examination, generally proved to be quite full. Young Linesmen held forth to crowds of compassionating women; all told one tale: "Nous sommes trahis; Trochu has led us to the slaughter. The Prussians have taken our mitrailleuses; they will be in to-night; the Fort of Vanves is going to be blown up." "Poor things," the women would say, with the unlimited pity of the female heart, and they would straightway supply the betrayed heroes with all manner of food and drink. But National Guards come up blustering and march off poor Dumanet to the nearest guard-house. Some of the fugitives are said to have given away their cartridges, and even their rifles to ruffians from the faubourgs, who, certainly, do not intend to use them against the Prussians. The lower classes are singularly keen in improving each opportunity to arm themselves against society. Towards three o'clock, on the Boulevard St. Michel, the panic seemed to have reached its height, when a long file of artillery-caissons came clattering down

from Chatillon, where the guns, some seven or eight in number, had been abandoned to the enemy. The boulevard was crowded with groups of people eager to catch and magnify each floating rumour, who gathered round the artillerymen and bewildered them with questions about the results of the fight. It was almost unsafe to mix amongst them; for if they fancied one to betray an anxiety for precise and correct information, they instantly suspected you of being a Uhlan in plain clothes, and, before long, men would detect a smack of foreign accent in your speech. Nor did the panic remain confined to the mob: our novices in power seemed to have lost their heads at the first sound of cannon, like landsmen in a storm. A friend, who met Gambetta in the street yesterday afternoon, has reported that he found the young Minister in a state of wild excitement, which he gave vent to by repeating several times over: Je vous dis que ces b. . . . là "-he meant the Prussians-" sont à La Porte Maillot." The most painful sight by far to witness was the general retreat of Ducrot's corps d'armée, which lasted for many hours of the night. heavy tramp as they came down our avenue, hungry, tired, footsore, and crest-fallen, followed by dismallooking carts which contained numbers of wounded lying like half-slaughtered cattle on litters of blood

We heard their

stained straw. The inhabitants would creep out of their houses and stand in the doorways, or get out of their beds and peep out from behind the windowcurtains in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of these half-veiled horrors, which mystery seemed only to make more horribly attractive.

However, it is some relief to see that the morning sun

has not forgotten to shine upon us, that Paris still remains true to her own nature, bright, beautiful, careless, and unmindful as ever; and now, perhaps, since we have slept over our first troubles, the siege may begin to afford matter for curiosity, especially if the weather continues fine. We intend to go, this afternoon, to the Trocadero. A lady who lives in our house tells us that the view from the heights of the Trocadero is splendid, and that an immense crowd gathered there yesterday to watch the battle raging on the opposite ridge of Chatillon and Clamart, at some four or five miles' distance. "She didn't see any Prussians," for these barbarians are perversely fond of hiding; but perhaps they may treat us this afternoon to a glimpse of their helmets. Thursday, 22nd September.-On Tuesday, rumours of negociation began to be widely spread. M. Ernest Picard's paper, the Electeur Libre, had, with deliberate indiscretion, revealed the secret of Jules Favre's visit to Ferrières; and already an armistice