ce. They simpered,
and gave themselves airs, and some of them even beat time with their
fans, as Mademoiselle Caillot was singing, to look as if they knew
something about music.

[Illustration: THE PALACE OF THE TUILERIES, FROM THE GARDEN. The last
concert held in the Tuileries by the Commune took place on Sunday, the
21st of March, when Anteuil and Passy had been in the power of the army
for several hours. Two days later the old palace was in flames. Citizen
Felix Pyat had advanced the preservation of the Tuileries in the
_Vengeur_, proposing to convert it into an asylum for the victims of
work and the martyrs of the Republic. "This residence," he wrote, "ought
to be devoted to the people, who had already taken possession of it."]

The concert took place in the Salle des Marechaux: a platform had been
erected for the performers. The velvet curtains with their golden bees
still draped the windows. From the gallery above I could see all that
was going on. The Imperial balcony opens out of it; I went there, and
leaned on the balustrade with a certain feeling of emotion. Below were
the illuminated gardens, and far away at the end of the Champs Elysees,
almost lost in the purple of the sky, rose the Arc de Triomphe de
l'Etoile.

The roaring of the cannon at Vanves and Montrouge reached me where I
stood. When the duet of the "_Maitre de Chapelle_" was over, I returned
into the hall; the distant crashing of the mitrailleuse at Neuilly,
borne towards us on the fresh spring breeze, in through the open
windows, joined its voice to the applause of the audience.

Oh! what an audience! The faces in general looked fit subjects for the
gibbet; others were simply disgusting: surprise, pleasure, and fear of
Equality were reflected on every physiognomy. The carpenter, Pindy,
military governor of the Hotel de Ville, was in close conversation with
a girl from Philippe's. The ex-spy Clemence muttered soft speeches into
the ear of a retired _chiffonniere_, who smiled awkwardly in reply. The
cobbler Dereure was intently contemplating his boots; while Brilier,
late coachman, hissed the singers by way of encouragement, as he would
have done to his horses. They were going to recite some verses: I only
waited to hear--

"PUIS, QUEL AVEUGLEMENT! QUEL NON-SENS POLITIQUE!"

an Alexandrine, doubtless, launched at the National Assembly, and made
my way to the garden as quickly as I could.

There, in spite of the Venetian lamps, all was v