So daily I waited on Trochu, as I had also waited on Jules Favre when he
dined, and all the while the mob shouted for the blood of spies without.
But I was Jules Lemaire from the Midi, a stupid provincial with the
rolling accent, come to Paris to earn money and see the life. Not for
nothing had I gone to school at Clermont-Ferrand.

But once I was nearly discovered and torn to pieces. The sweat breaks
cold even now to think upon it. It was a March morning very early, soon
after the light came stealing up the river from behind Notre-Dame. A
bitter wind was sweeping the bare, barked, hacked trees on the Champs
Élysées. It happened that I went every morning to the Halles to make the
market for the day--such as was to be had. And, of course, we at the
Hôtel de Ville had our pick of the best before any other was permitted
to buy. So I went daily as Monsieur Jules Lemaire from the Hôtel de
Ville. And please to take off your _képis, canaille_ of the markets.

Suddenly I saw riding towards me a Prussian hussar of my old regiment.
He rode alone, but presently I spied two others behind him. The first
was that same sergeant Strauss who had knocked me about so grievously
when first I joined the colours. At that time I hated the sight of him,
but now it was the best I could do to keep down the German "Hoch!" which
rose to the top of my throat and stopped there all of a lump.

Listen! The _gamins_ and _vauriens_ of the quarters--louts and cruel
rabble--were running after him--yes, screaming all about him. There were
groups of National Guards looking for their regiments, or marauding to
pick up what they could lay their hands on, for it was a great time for
patriotism. But Strauss of the Blaue Husaren, he sat his horse stiff and
steady as at parade, and looked out under his eyebrows while the mob