I shall begin to consider myself half a heroine, after an exploit I performed this evening.  The men who shared our dinner having gone out to observe what was passing, I determined, coute que coute, to pay a visit to my friend Madame Craufurd.  I attired myself as simply as possible, and, attended by a valet de pied, sallied forth.  Having traversed the short distance that separates this house from the Rue St.-Honore, I arrived at the barricade erected in front of the entrance to the Rue Verte, and I confess this obstacle seemed to me, for the first minute or two that I contemplated it, insurmountable.  My servant, too, expressed his belief of the difficulty, if not impossibility, of climbing over this mountain of loose stones, that I felt half disposed to retrace my steps.

The shouts of a mob approaching along the Rue St.-Honore quickly decided me on the course to pursue; I clambered up as best I could, not without considerable risk; nor was the danger and difficulty of the descent on the other side of this rude pyramid less imminent.  The evening was more sultry than I ever experienced an evening to be, even in Italy; the houses were all closed, the streets deserted, except when a few occasional stragglers rushed along, glancing at me with surprise, and uttering their comments on my courage.  Now and then a dog ran by, with a terrified air and drooping tail, keeping close to the houses as if for protection.  One might have fancied oneself in some city ravaged by the plague, and the burning heat of the atmosphere, and lurid red of the clouds, might have strengthened the notion.

It more than once occurred to me how singular it was for me, a woman and a stranger, to find myself with only one attendant in the streets, on foot, in a city declared to be in a state of siege, and with the noise of firing in the distance, and the shouts of the populace, continually breaking on my ears.

Having passed the Rue de la Ville-l’Eveque, and entered the Rue d’Anjou, I soon reached the porte-cochere of my friend.  My servant knocked, and very loudly, but before the Swiss porter would open the door, he reconnoitred from the window in the entresol of his lodge.  He could hardly credit his eyes when he saw me; and while he unbolted and unchained the door, an operation which took him more time than I thought necessary, I could hear him muttering that, “Les dames Anglaises n’ont peur de rien, positivement rien.”  I was not sorry when I heard the massive door closed after me, with its bolts and chains again secured; but, as I crossed the courtyard, the different aspect of the house, with its closed windows, reminded me so forcibly of the change that had occurred since my last visit, only three days previously, that I felt more agitated than while traversing the streets.