to pass in?" said a big
man in a blouse, girt with a red sash, and carrying a naked sword;
"then Madame _shall_ pass in!" Thereupon he and his followers in
the front rank of the crowd so bepummelled the door with the hilts
of their swords and the stocks of their muskets that those within
were forced to throw it open. In marched our dear nurse beside her
protector. They passed through room after room until they reached
the throne-room; there she indicated her wish to obtain a relic of
departed royalty. Instantly her friend with the bare sword sliced
off from the throne a piece of red velvet with gold embroidery.
She kept it ever after, together with a delicate china cup marked
L. P.; but the cup was much broken. "You see, dears," she would
say to us, "there was lots of things like these lying about, but
there were men standing round with naked swords ready to cut your
head off if you stole anything. So I took this cup and broke it.
It was not stealing to carry off a broken cup, you know." And she
would add, when winding up her narrative: "Those Frenchmen was
so polite to me that they did n't even tread on my corns."

That night there was a brilliant conflagration in the Carrousel. It
was a bonfire of those very carriages which eighteen years before
the mob had brought in triumph to Louis Philippe from the stables
of Charles X. at Rambouillet.

All the next day not a newspaper was to be had. The "Presse," indeed,
brought out a half sheet, mainly taken up in returning thanks to two
compositors "who, between two fires," had been "so considerate" as
to set up the type. But their consideration could not have lasted
long, for the news broke off abruptly in the middle of a sentence
on the first page. Events worked faster than compositors.

By noon on Friday, February 25, the entire population of Paris
was in the streets. From the flags on public offices, the blue
and white strips had been tom away. On that day--but on that day
only--every man wore a red ribbon in his button-hole. Many did so
very unwillingly, for red was understood to be the badge of Red
Republicanism.

On the Boulevards the iron railings had been tom up, and most of
the trees had been cut down. They were replanted, however, not
long after, to the singing of the "Marseillaise" and the firing of
cannon. For more than a week there was a strange quiet in Paris:
no vehicles were in the streets, for the paving-stones had been
torn up for barricades; no shops