erable influence, and I at once concluded that he had received
bad news from the seat of war. I asked eagerly what was the matter.
"Can you keep a secret?" "Of course I can," I answered. "If you
divulge this one it may have serious consequences for yourself," he
returned gravely. "I promise to keep silent." "Well, then, there has
been a fight before Sedan. Napoleon III. has laid his sword at the
feet of William of Prussia." "My God!" I cried, "is it possible?" "It
is but too true. I have just seen a ciphered telegram which came _via_
Cologne and Turin. It is not known in Nice, and will not be so for
hours yet. Do not say a word about it: if you do it may cost you dear.
No one will believe you, and they will take you for a spy, a Prussian
or a pessimist." I understood at once the prudence of this advice.
Presently the train came up, we parted, and I took my place. The
third-class carriages were full of volunteers, recruits and conscripts
from Mentone. They were singing _a tue tete_ the Marsellaise. I
shall never forget the terrible impression the song made on me. The
triumphant words shouted out by the men seemed more sorrowful than
those of the _De profundis_:

Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive.

"The day of glory" indeed _had_ arrived. On we went as fast as the
wind, and the singing continued uninterruptedly until we reached Nice.
Here I found the station full of soldiers preparing to start by the
2 A.M. train. When we entered the station, hearing the shouts of "Le
jour de gloire," they joined in enthusiastically. The next morning by
daybreak the official despatch arrived. To describe the consternation
it produced would be impossible, or the frantic glee with which
the Republic was proclaimed. The next day the mob tore down all the
imperial eagles and bees from the public buildings; M. Gavini, the
Bonapartist prefect, had to escape the best way he could over the
frontier, and madame his wife made her way to the station under a
shower of potatoes, eggs and carrots, and a volley of insults and
coarse epithets; Gambetta's father, a fine white-headed old gentleman,
a grocer, was carried in triumph through the streets; the timid
trembled for their lives; the wildest reports were circulated; the
town was placed in a state of siege; but "le jour de gloire" did not
arrive. It has not arrived yet, and may not do so for some time to
come; but it must arrive sooner or later, or there will be no such