Great trophies of red flags are waving everywhere.  Men bearing the banners of the society are stationed on every step; on each is inscribed, in golden letters, mottos of peace and fraternity.  A patriarchal Freemason, wearing his collar and badges, has arrived in a carriage; they help him to alight with marks of the greatest respect.  The court is by this time full to overflowing, an enthusiastic cry of “Vive la Franc Maconnerie!  Vive la Republique Universelle!” is re-echoed from mouth to mouth.  Citizen Felix Pyat, member of the Commune, who is on the balcony, comes forward to speak.  I congratulate myself on being at last about to hear what all this means.  But I am disappointed.  The pushing and squeezing is unbearable.  I have vigorously to defend my hat, stick, purse, and cigar-case, and am half stifled besides.  I almost despair of catching a single word, but at last succeed in hearing a few detached sentences:—­“Universal nationality.... liberty, equality, and fraternity.... manifestos of the heart....” (what is that?) “the standard of humanity.... ramparts....”  If I could only get a little nearer—­the words “homicidal balls.... fratricidal bullets.... universal peace....” alone reach me.  Is it to hear such stuff as this, that the Freemasons have come to the Hotel de Ville?  I suppose so, for after a little more of the same kind the whole is drowned in a stupendous roar of “Vive la Commune!” and “Vive la Republique!” I have given up all hope of ever understanding.

[Illustration:  FELIX PYAT.[67]]

“They have come to draw lots to see who is to go and kill M. Thiers,” cries a red-haired gamin.—­“Idiot,” retorts his comrade, “they have no arms!”—­“Listen, and you will hear,” says the first, which is capital advice, if I could but follow it.  The pushing becomes intolerable, when suddenly the bald head of an unfortunate citizen executes a fatal plunge—­I can breathe at last—­and the following words reach me pretty clearly:—­“The Commune has decided that we shall choose five members who are to have the honour of escorting you, and we are to draw lots....”—­“There! was I not right?” cries he of the carrotty hair; “I knew they were going to draw lots!” A cleverly administered blow, however, soon silences his elation, and we hear that the lots have been drawn, and that five members are chosen to aid “this glorious, this victorious act.”  There seems more rhyme than reason in this.  “An act that will be read of in the future history of France and of humanity.”  Here the irrepressible breaks out again:—­“Now I am sure they are going to kill M. Thiers!” Whereupon his irritated adversary seizes him by the collar, gives his head some well-applied blows against the curb-stone, and then, pushing through the crowd, carries him off bodily.  As for me, my curiosity unsatisfied, I grow resigned—­may the will of the Commune be done—­and I give it up.  More hopeless mystification from the Citizen Beslay, who regrets not having been chosen to aid in this “heroic