to what we had seen during the day. We momentarily expected to hear the
artillery again, but, thank Heaven, the bloodshed in the streets at least
was over; and though Paris was still a city in a siege, the barricades
were all demolished; and another struggle was for the moment crushed.

The streets next day were full of hearses; but even the number of funerals
that took place were insignificant, in comparison to the stacks of corpses
which were cast into deep trenches without shroud or coffin, and covered
with quicklime. I went to the Morgue in the afternoon, and found that
dismal charnel-house fully tenanted. Every one of the fourteen beds had a
corpse; some, dead with gunshot wounds; some, sabred; some, horribly
mutilated by cannon-balls. There was a _queue_ outside of at least two
thousand people, laughing, talking, smoking, eating apples, as though it
was some pleasant spectacle they were going to, instead of that frightful
exhibition. Yet, in this laughing, talking, smoking crowd, there were
fathers who had missed their sons; sons who came there dreading to see the
corpses of their fathers; wives of Socialist workmen, sick with the almost
certainty of finding the bodies of their husbands. The bodies were only
exposed six hours; but the clothes remained--a very grove of blouses. The
neighboring churches were hung with black, and there were funeral services
at St. Roch and at the Madeleine.

And yet--with this Golgotha so close; with the blood not yet dry on the
Boulevards; with corpses yet lying about the streets; with five thousand
soldiers bivouacking in the Champs Elysees; with mourning and lamentation
in almost every street; with a brutal military in almost every
printing-office, tavern, cafe; with proclamations threatening death and
confiscation covering the walls; with the city in a siege, without a
legislature, without laws, without a government--this extraordinary people
was, the next night, dancing and flirting at the Salle Valentino, or the
Prado, lounging in the _foyers_ of the Italian Opera, gossiping over their
_eau-sucree_, or squabbling over their dominoes outside and inside the
cafes. I saw Rachel in "Les Horaces;" I went to the _Varietes_, the _Opera
Comique_, and no end of theatres; and as we walked home at night through
lines of soldiers, brooding over their bivouacs, I went into a restaurant,
and asking whether it had been a ball which had starred the magnificent
pier-glass before me, got for ans