he outbreak of a new struggle, the results of which it was
easy to anticipate. About four o'clock in the afternoon, a man, who had
probably got earlier information than his fellow-townspeople, tore off
his tricoloured cockade and trampled it under foot, crying, 'Long live
the king!' The angry soldiers seized him and were about to drag him
to the guard-house, but the National Guards prevented them, and their
interference led to a fight. Shouts were heard on all sides, a large
ring was formed round the soldiers, a few musket shots heard, others
answered, three or four men fell, and lay there weltering in their
blood. Out of this confused uproar the word 'Waterloo' emerged distinct;
and with this unfamiliar name pronounced for the first time in the
resounding voice of history, the news of the defeat of the French army
and the triumph of the Allies spread apace. Then General Verdier,
who held the chief command in the absence of Marshal Brune, tried to
harangue the people, but his voice was drowned by the shouts of the mob
who had gathered round a coffee-house where stood a bust of the emperor,
which they insisted should be given up to them. Verdier, hoping to calm,
what he took to be a simple street row, gave orders that the bust should
be brought out, and this concession, so significant on the part of a
general commanding in the emperor's name, convinced the crowd that his
cause was lost. The fury of the populace grew greater now that they felt
that they could indulge it with impunity; they ran to the Town Hall,
and tearing down and burning the tricoloured, raised the white flag.
The roll of the generale, the clang of the tocsin were heard, the
neighbouring villages poured in their populations and increased the
throng in the streets; single acts of violence began to occur, wholesale
massacres were approaching. I had arrived in the town with my friend
M____ the very beginning of the tumult, so we had seen the dangerous
agitation and excitement grow under our eyes, but we were still ignorant
of its true cause, when, in the rue de Noailles, we met an acquaintance,
who, although his political opinions did not coincide with ours, had
always shown himself very friendly to us. 'Well,' said I, 'what news?'
'Good for me and bad for you,' he answered; 'I advise you to go away at
once.' Surprised and somewhat alarmed at these words, we begged him to
explain. 'Listen,' said he; 'there are going to be riots in the town; it
is well known