of April to the 4th of May, 1870, gave me, as the boys now say,
"the time of my life." I met a great many people whose names I
already knew, and some more of whom we heard next year in the history
of the Commune. The air was full of the most sensational rumours,
and those who hoped "to see the last King strangled in the bowels
of the last priest" enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

My cousin Evelyn was always at home to her friends on Sunday and
Wednesday evenings, and her rooms were thronged by a miscellaneous
crowd in which the Parisian accent mingled with the tongues of
America and Italy, and the French of the southern provinces. At
one of these parties I was talking to a delightful lady who lived
only in the hope of seeing "the Devil come for that dog" (indicating
by this term an Imperial malefactor), and who, when exhausted by
regicidal eloquence, demanded coffee. As we approached the buffet, a
man who had just put down his cup turned round and met my companion
and me face to face. Two years and a half had made no difference
in him. He was Mr. Aulif, as active and fresh as ever, and, before
I had time to reflect on my course, I had impulsively seized him
by the hand. "Don't you remember me?" I cried. He only stared. "My
name is George Russell, and you visited me at Harrow." "I fear,
sir, you have made a mistake," said Aulif, bowed rather stiffly to
my companion, and hurried back into the drawing-room. My companion
looked surprised. "The General seems put out--I wonder why. He
and I are the greatest allies. Let me tell you, my friend, that
he is the man that the Revolution will have to rely on when the
time comes for rising. Ask them at Saint-Cyr. Ask Garibaldi. Ask
McClellan. Ask General Grant. He is the greatest General in the
world, and has sacrificed his career for Freedom." "Is his name
Aulif?" "No; his name is Cluseret."