n eaten, some as beef and some as plain horse.

"Monsieur the Commissary," said one of the porters, "do you know that
the old man to whom you spoke, with the young lady, is le Pere Felix,
whom all the patriots of Paris call the 'Deliverer of Forty-eight'?"

I knew it not, nor cared. I am a Prussian, though born in Elsass.

So in Paris the days passed on. In our Hotel de Ville the officials of
the Provisional Government became more and more uneasy. The gentlemen of
the National Guard took matters in their own hands, and would neither
disband nor work. They sulked about the brows of Montmartre, where they
had taken their cannon. My word, they were dirty patriots! I saw them
every day as I went by to the Halles, lounging against the
walls--linesmen among them, too, absent from duty without leave. They
sat on the kerb-stone leaning their guns against the placard-studded
wall. Some of them had loaves stuck on the points of their
bayonets--dirty scoundrels all!

Then came the flight of one set of masters and the entry of another. But
even the Commune and the unknown young men who came to the Hotel de
Ville made no change to Jules, the head waiter from the Midi. He made
ready the _dejeuner_ as usual, and the gentlemen of the red sash were
just as fond of the calves' flesh and the red wine as the brutal
_bourgeoisie_ of Thiers' Republic or the aristocrats of the _regime_ of
Buonaparte. It was quite equal.

It was only a little easier to send my weekly report to my Prince and
Chancellor out at Saint Denis. That was all. For if the gentlemen who
went talked little and lined their pockets exceedingly well, these new
masters of mine both talked much and drank much. It was no longer the
Commune, but the Proscription. I knew what the end of these things would
be, but I gave no offence to any, for that was not my business. Indeed,
what mattered it if all these Frenchmen cut each other's throats? There
were just so many the fewer to breed soldiers to fight against the
Fatherland, in the war of revenge of which they are always talking.

So the days went on, and there were ever more days behind
them--east-windy, bleak days, such as we have in Pomerania and in
Prussia, but seldom in Paris. The city was even then, with the red flag
floating overhead, beautiful for situation--the sky clear save for the
little puffs of smoke from the bombs when they shelled the forts, and
Valerien growled in reply.

The constant rattle of musketry cam