The traveller said to him, “Undress yourself, and get into my bed.”  And then he lit a cigar, and began quietly to smoke.  Just as the man of the barricade had got into bed a knock came at the door.  It was the solders who were searching the house.  To the questions which they asked him the traveller answered, pointing to the bed, “We are only two here.  We have just arrived here.  I am smoking my cigar, and my brother is asleep.”  The waiter was questioned, and confirmed the traveller’s statement.  The soldiers went away, and no one was shot.

We will say this, that the victorious soldiers killed less than on the preceding day.  They did not massacre in all the captured barricades.  The order had been given on that day to make prisoners.  It might also be believed that a certain humanity existed.  What was this humanity?  We shall see.

At eleven o’clock at night all was at an end.

They arrested all those whom they found in the streets which had been surrounded, whether combatants or not, they had all the wine-shops and the cafes opened, they closely searched the houses, they seized all the men whom they could find, only leaving the women and the children.  Two regiments formed in a square carried away all these prisoners huddled together.  They took them to the Tuileries, and shut them up in the vast cellar situated beneath the terrace at the waterside.

On entering this cellar the prisoners felt reassured.  They called to mind that in June, 1848, a great number of insurgents had been shut up there, and later on had been transported.  They said to themselves that doubtless they also would be transported, or brought before the Councils of War, and that they had plenty of time before them.

They were thirsty.  Many of them had been fighting since that morning, and nothing parches tire mouth so much as biting cartridges.  They asked for drink.  Three pitchers of water were brought to them.

A sort of security suddenly fell upon them.  Amongst them were several who had been transported in June, 1848, and who had already been in that cellar, and who said, “In June they were not so humane.  They left us for three days without food or drink.”  Some of them wrapped themselves up in their overcoats or cloaks, lay down, and slept.  At one o’clock in the morning a great noise was heard outside.  Soldiers, carrying torches, appeared in the cellars, the prisoners who were sleeping woke with a start, an officer ordered them to get up.

They made them go out anyhow as they had come in.  As they went out they coupled them two by two at random, and a sergeant counted them in a loud voice.  They asked neither their names, nor their professions, nor their families, nor who they were, nor whence they came; they contented themselves with the numbers.  The numbers sufficed for what they were about to do.

In this manner they counted 337.  The counting having come to an end, they ranged them in close columns, still two by two and arm-in-arm.  They were not tied together, but on each side of the column, on the right and on the left, there were three files of soldiers keeping them within their ranks, with guns loaded; a battalion was at their head, a battalion in their rear.  They began to march, pressed together and enclosed in this moving frame of bayonets.