and wares that had been hidden away, were
being brought to light. Shopkeepers were counting up their losses and
discounting their prospects.

Matters political were in abeyance. Whenever I asked, "What is to come
next? What Government would you vote for?" I got the answer: "Cela nous
est bien egal, monsieur, pourvu qu'il-y-ait du travail."[14] One lived
in a sort of interregnum, a period of transition from lawlessness to
order. War had ceased, but peace had only just begun to strike roots.
There was no bragging, no cheap oratory--nobody seemed to think himself
particularly "_trahi_."[15] There was no show of military rule. Even
the sentries chatted freely with the bourgeois, and there were no
ominous cries of "_Passez au large_," coupled with the significant
thrust of the fixed bayonet, as one used to hear in the days of the
_Coup d'Etat_. On the contrary, thousands of soldiers, with their
_Chassepots_ slung carelessly across their shoulders, were sauntering
along the streets, most of them evidently provincials, amazed at the
grandeur of the capital they were visiting for the first time.

Cabs were about, and even the heavy three-horse omnibuses were resuming
their well-regulated course; but no private carriages were to be seen.
In fact, the upper ten as well as the submerged tenth seemed to have
disappeared, and the odd million about was made up of the _bourgeois_,
the _piou-piou_,[16] the _badaud de province_, and other sightseers.

I scorned conveyances of any kind, and tramped along on foot from
morning to night, for it was only thus I felt I was my own master. I
could pull up, stumble, or climb as circumstances required, or I could
turn in, stand, drink, talk, listen, and argue--or, better still, hold
my tongue.

In the evening darkness reigned, except in the neighbourhood of the
cafes. There people were congregating as usual, seeking the light like
so many moths, and settling like flies on the sugar that was to sweeten
their _demie-tasse_ or to be pocketed for home consumption. At eleven
o'clock the cafes were closed, and nothing remained to do but to go home
in the dark. The moths, by the way, must have had a dull time of it,
for the graceful lamp-posts had suffered so severely that very few of
them were fit for service.

The Commune had naturally produced a great quantity of scurrilous
literature and vile caricatures, some quite unmentionable; but they are
interesting historically, throwing, as they do, a