aturally, walking there
is prohibited too. I had been prowling about every afternoon for the
last few days, trying to pass the sentinels of the Rue de la Paix,
hoping that some lucky chance might enable me to evade the military
order; all I got for my pains was a sharply articulated "_Passes au
large!_" and I remained shut out.

To-day, as I was watching for a favourable opportunity, a _petite dame_
who held up her skirts to show her stockings, which were as red as the
flag of the Hotel de Ville--out upon you for a female Communist!
--approached the sentinel and addressed him with her most
gracious, smile. And oh, these Federals! The man in office forgot his
duty, and at once began with the lady a conversation of such an intimate
description, that for discretion's sake I felt myself obliged to take a
slight turn to the left, and a minute later I had slipped into the
forbidden Place.

A Place?--no, a camp it might more properly be called. Here and there,
are seen a crowd of little tents, which would be white if they were
washed, and littered about with straw. Under the tents lie National
Guards; they are not seen, but plainly heard, for they are snoring. You
remember the absurd old bit of chop-logic often repeated in the classes
of philosophy? One might apply it thus: he sleeps well who has a good
conscience; the Federals sleep well; ergo, the Federals have a good
conscience. Guards walk to and fro with their pipes in their mouths. If
I were to say that these honourable Communists show by their easy
manner, gentlemanly bearing, and superior conversation, that they belong
to the cream of Parisian society, you would perhaps be impertinent
enough not to believe one word of what I said. I think it, therefore,
preferable in every way to assert the direct contrary. There is a group
of them flinging away their pay at the usual game of _bouchon_. "The
Soldier's Pay and the Game of Cork" is the title that might be given by
those who would write the history of the National Guard from the
beginning of the siege to the present time. And if to the cork they
added the bottle, they might pride themselves upon having found a
perfect one. This is how it comes to pass. The wife is hungry, and the
children are hungry, but the father is thirsty, and he receives the pay.
What does he do? He is thirsty, and he must drink; one must think of
oneself in this world. When he has satisfied his thirst, what remains? A
few sous, the empty bottle, a