visits to Saint-Cloud,
Compiegne, and Fontainebleau, instinctively guessed the pain the
concession must have caused the chief of the State, and under some
pretext declined. Mdlle. Agar accepted, and sang the "Marseillaise," in
all forty-four times, from the 20th of July to the 17th of September,
the day of the final investment of the capital by the German armies.

[Footnote 78: I believe there exists an English version of the
play, entitled "A Son of the Soil." I am not certain of the
title.--EDITOR.]

It must not be supposed, though, that the Government had waited until
the day of the official declaration of war to sanction the performance
of the "Marseillaise" in places of public resort. I remember crossing
the Gardens of the Tuileries in the afternoon of Sunday, the 17th of
July. One of the military bands was performing a selection of music. The
custom of doing so during the summer months has prevailed for many
years, both in the capital and in the principal garrison towns of the
provinces. All at once they struck up the "Marseillaise." I looked with
surprise at my companion, a member of the Emperor's household. He caught
the drift of my look.

"It is by the Emperor's express command," he said. "It is the national
war-song. In fact, it is that much more than a revolutionary hymn."

"But war has not been declared," I objected.

"It will be to-morrow," was the answer.

The public, which in this instance was mainly composed of the better
classes, apparently refused to consider the "Marseillaise" a national
war-song, and applause at its termination was but very lukewarm.

I have already spoken of the scene I witnessed in connection with the
departure of the Germans on that same Sunday early in the morning, and
have also noted the demonstration in front of the German Embassy on the
previous Friday night. I will not be equally positive with regard to the
exact dates of the succeeding exhibitions of bad taste on the part of
the Parisians, but I remember a very striking one which happened between
the official declaration of war and the end of July. It was brought
under my notice, not by a foreigner, but by a Frenchman, who was
absolutely disgusted with it. We were sitting one evening outside the
Cafe de la Paix, which, being the resort of some noted Imperialists, I
had begun to visit more frequently than I had done hitherto. There was a
terrible din on the Boulevards: the evening papers had