I quitted the Louvre, going towards the Rue Royale, it having been
arranged with my father that we should take _dejeuner_ at a well-known
restaurant there. It was called "His Lordship's Larder," and was
pre-eminently an English house, though the landlord bore the German name
of Weber. He and his family were unhappily suffocated in the cellars of
their establishment during one of the conflagrations which marked the
Bloody Week of the Commune. At the time when I met my father, that is
about noon, there was nothing particularly ominous in the appearance of
the streets along which I myself passed. It was a fine bright Sunday, and,
as was usual on such a day, there were plenty of people abroad. Recently
enrolled National Guards certainly predominated among the men, but the
latter included many in civilian attire, and there was no lack of women
and children. As for agitation, I saw no sign of it.

As I was afterwards told, however, by Delmas, the landlord of the Cafe
Gretry, [Note] matters were very different that morning on the Boulevards,
and particularly on the Boulevard Montmartre. By ten o'clock, indeed,
great crowds had assembled there, and the excitement grew apace. The same
words were on all lips: "Sedan--the whole French army taken--the wretched
Emperor's sword surrendered--unworthy to reign--dethrone him!" Just as, in
another crisis of French history, men had climbed on to the chairs and
tables in the garden of the Palais Royal to denounce Monsieur and Madame
Veto and urge the Parisians to march upon Versailles, so now others
climbed on the chairs outside the Boulevard cafes to denounce the Empire,
and urge a march upon the Palais Bourbon, where the Legislative Body was
about to meet. And amidst the general clamour one cry persistently
prevailed. It was: "Decheance! Decheance!--Dethronement! Dethronement!"

[Note: This was a little cafe on the Boulevard des Italiens, and was noted
for its quietude during the afternoon, though in the evening it was, by