eling no inclination for bed, I turned into the
Gymnase. There were Bressant and Rose Cheri and Arnal; I would surely be
able to spend a few pleasant hours. But alack and alas! the house
presented a very doleful appearance--dead-heads, to a man; and very few
of these, people who, if they could not fiddle themselves, like Nero
while Rome was burning, would go to hear fiddling under no matter what
circumstances, provided they were not asked to pay. I did not stay long,
but when I came out into the streets the noise was too deafening for me.
The "Marseillaise" has always had a particularly jarring effect upon my
nerves. There are days when I could be cruel enough to prefer "the yells
of those ferocious soldiers, as they murder in cold blood the sons and
the companions" of one section of defenceless patriots, to the stirring
strains of the other section as they figuratively rush to the rescue;
and on that particular evening I felt in that mood. So, when I got to
the Boulevard Montmartre, I turned into the Theatre des Varietes. I
remember the programme up to this day. They were playing "Le Suisse de
Marly," "Le Marquis de Lauzun," "Les Extremes se touchent," and "Les
Vieux Peches." I had seen the second and the last piece at least a dozen
times, but I was always ready to see them again for the sake of Virginie
Dejazet in the one, of Bouffe in the other. The lessee at that time was
an Englishman. Bouffe and I had always kept up our friendship; so I made
up my mind to go and have a chat with him, hoping that Dejazet, whose
conversation affected one like a bottle of champagne, would join us. The
house, like the Gymnase, was almost empty, but I made my way behind the
scenes, and in about half an hour forgot all about the events outside.
Bouffe was telling me anecdotes about his London performances, and
Dejazet was imitating the French of some of the bigwigs of King
Leopold's court; so the time passed pleasantly enough. At the end of the
performance we proposed taking supper, and turned down the Rue
Montmartre. It was late when I returned home, consequently I saw nothing
of the slaughter on the Boulevard des Capucines.

Though I had gone to bed late, I was up betimes on the Thursday morning.
A glance at the Boulevards, as I turned the corner of my street about
half-past nine, convinced me that the illuminations of the previous
night had been premature, and that before the day was out there would be
an end of the monarchy of July.