At three o’clock the members of the Left rejoined each other in the Rue de la Cerisaie.  But the alarm had been given, and the inhabitants of these lonely streets stationed themselves at the windows to see the Representatives pass.  The place of meeting, situated and hemmed in at the bottom of a back yard, was badly chosen in the event of being surrounded:  all these disadvantages were at once perceived, and the meeting only lasted a few seconds.  It was presided over by Joly; Xavier Durrieu and Jules Gouache, who were editors of the Revolution, also took part, as well as several Italian exiles, amongst others Colonel Carini and Montanelli, ex-Minister of the Grand Duke of Tuscany.  I liked Montanelli, a gentle and dauntless spirit.

Madier de Montjau brought news from the outskirts.  Colonel Forestier, without losing and without taking away hope, told them of the obstacles which he had encountered in his attempts to call together the 6th Legion.  He pressed me to sign his appointment as Colonel, as well as Michel de Bourges; but Michel de Bourges was absent, and besides, neither Michel de Bourges nor I had yet at drat time the authority from the Left.  Nevertheless, under this reservation I signed his appointment.  The perplexities were becoming more and more numerous.  The Proclamation was not yet printed, and the evening was closing in.  Schoelcher explained the difficulties:  all the printing offices closed and guarded; an order placarded that whoever should print an appeal to arms world be immediately shot; the workmen terrified; no money.  A hat was sent round, and each threw into it what money he had about him.  They collected in this manner a few hundred francs.

Xavier Durrieu, whose fiery courage never flagged for a single moment, reiterated that he would undertake the printing, and promised that by eight o’clock that evening there should be 40,000 copies of the Proclamation.  Time pressed.  They separated, after fixing as a rendezvous the premises of the Society of Cabinet-makers in the Rue de Charonne, at eight o’clock in the evening, so as to allow time for the situation to reveal itself.  As we went out and crossed the Rue Beautreillis I saw Pierre Leroux coming up to me.  He had taken no part in our meetings.  He said to me,—­

“I believe this struggle to be useless.  Although my point of view is different from yours, I am your friend.  Beware.  There is yet time to stop.  You are entering into the catacombs.  The catacombs are Death.”

“They are also Life,” answered I.

All the same, I thought with joy that my two sons were in prison, and that this gloomy duty of street fighting was imposed upon me alone.

There yet remained five hours until the time fixed for the rendezvous.  I wished to go home, and once more embrace my wife and daughter before precipitating myself into that abyss of the “unknown” which was there, yawning and gloomy, and which several of us were about to enter, never to return.