Moreover, cordiality prevailed among all, all shades of difference were effaced.  In the secret sittings of the Committee Madier de Montjau, that firm and generous heart, De Flotte, brave and thoughtful, a fighting philosopher of the Devolution, Carnot, accurate, cold, tranquil, immovable, Jules Favre, eloquent, courageous, admirable through his simplicity and his strength, inexhaustible in resources as in sarcasms, doubled, by combining them, the diverse powers of their minds.

Michel de Bourges, seated in a corner of the fireplace, or leaning on a table enveloped in his great coat, his black silk cap on his head, had an answer for every suggestion, gave back to occurrences blow for blow, was on his guard for danger, difficulty, opportunity, necessity, for his is one of those wealthy natures which have always something ready either in their intellect or in their imagination.  Words of advice crossed without jostling each other.  These men entertained no illusion.  They knew that they had entered into a life-and-death struggle.  They had no quarter to expect.  They had to do with the Man who had said, “Crush everything.”  They knew the bloody words of the self-styled Minister, Merny.  These words the placards of Saint-Arnaud interpreted by decrees, the Praetorians let loose in the street interpreted them by murder.  The members of the Insurrectionary Committee and the Representatives assisting at the meetings were not ignorant that wherever they might be taken they would be killed on the spot by bayonet-thrusts.  It was the fortune of this war.  Yet the prevailing expression on every face was serenity; that profound serenity which comes from a happy conscience.  At times this serenity rose to gaiety.  They laughed willingly and at everything.  At the torn trousers of one, at the hat which another had brought back from the barricade instead of his own, at the comforter of a third.  “Hide your big body,” they said to him.  They were children, and everything amused them.  On the morning of the 4th Mathien de la Drome came in.  He had organized for his part a committee which communicated with the Central Committee, he came to tell us of it.  He had shaved off his fringe of beard so as not to be recognized in the streets.  “You look like an Archbishop,” said Michel de Bourges to him, and there was a general laugh.  And all this, with this thought which every moment brought back; the noise which is heard at the door, the key which turns in the lock is perhaps Death coming in.

The Representatives and the Committee were at the mercy of chance.  More than once they could have been captured, and they were not; either owing to the scruples of certain police agents (where the deuce will scruples next take up their abode?) or that these agents doubted the final result, and feared to lay their hand heedlessly upon possible victors.  If Vassal, the Commissary of Police, who met us on the morning of the 4th, on the pavement of the Rue des Moulins, had wished, we might have been taken that day.  He did not betray us.  But these were exceptions.  The pursuit of the police was none the less ardent and implacable.  At Marie’s, it may be remembered that the sergents de ville and the gendarmes arrived ten minutes after we had left the house, and that they even ransacked under the beds with their bayonets.