character of a funeral procession. In a few hours Paris
was bristling with barricades.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

At daybreak, from my balcony, I see advancing a noisy column of people,
among whom are a number of National Guards. The mob stops in front of
the Mairie, which is guarded by about thirty Municipal Guards, and with
loud cries demands the soldiers' arms. Flat refusal by the Municipal
Guards, menacing clamours of the crowd. Two National Guard officers
intervene: "What is the use of further bloodshed? Resistance will be
useless." The Municipal Guards lay down their rifles and ammunition and
withdraw without being molested.

The Mayor of the Eighth Arrondissement, M. Ernest Moreau, requests me
to come to the Mairie. He tells me the appalling news of the massacre
on the Boulevard des Capucines. And at brief intervals further news
of increasing seriousness arrives. The National Guard this time has
definitely turned against the Government, and is shouting: "Hurrah for
Reform!" The army, frightened at what it did yesterday, appears resolved
not to take any further part in the fratricidal struggle. In the Rue
Sainte Croix la Bretonnerie the troops have fallen back before the
National Guard. At the neighbouring Mairie of the Ninth Arrondissement,
we are informed, the soldiers are fraternising and patrolling with the
National Guard. Two other messengers in blouses arrive almost together:
"The Reuilly Barracks has been taken." "The Minimes Barracks has
surrendered."

"And from the Government I have neither instructions nor news!" says M.
Ernest Moreau. "What Government, if any, is there? Is the Mole Ministry
still in existence? What is to be done?"

"Go to the Prefecture of the Seine," advises M. Perret, a member of the
General Council. "It isn't far to the Hotel de Ville."

"Well, then, come with me."

They go. I reconnoitre round the Place Royale. Everywhere reign
agitation, anxiety and feverish expectation. Everywhere work is being
actively pushed upon barricades that are already formidable. This time
it is more than a riot, it is an insurrection. I return home. A soldier
of the line, on sentry duty at the entrance to the Place Royale, is
chatting amicably with the vedette of a barricade constructed twenty
paces from him.

At a quarter past eight M. Ernest Moreau returns from the Hotel de
Ville. He has seen M. de Rambuteau and brings slightly better news.
The King has entrusted the formation of a Ca