For I have served my country in more terrible places than the field of Weissenburg or the hill of Spichern.

Ja wohl! there were few Prussians who could be taken for Frenchmen, in Paris during those months when suspicion was everywhere.  Yet in Paris I was, all through the days of the investiture.  More, I was chief of domestic service at the Hotel de Ville, and my letters went through the balloon-post to England, and thence back to Versailles, where my brothers were and the Kaiser whom in three wars I have served.  For I am Prussian in heart and by begetting, though born in Elsass.

So daily I waited on Trochu, as I had also waited on Jules Favre when he dined, and all the while the mob shouted for the blood of spies without.  But I was Jules Lemaire from the Midi, a stupid provincial with the rolling accent, come to Paris to earn money and see the life.  Not for nothing had I gone to school at Clermont-Ferrand.

But once I was nearly discovered and torn to pieces.  The sweat breaks cold even now to think upon it.  It was a March morning very early, soon after the light came stealing up the river from behind Notre-Dame.  A bitter wind was sweeping the bare, barked, hacked trees on the Champs Elysees.  It happened that I went every morning to the Halles to make the market for the day—­such as was to be had.  And, of course, we at the Hotel de Ville had our pick of the best before any other was permitted to buy.  So I went daily as Monsieur Jules Lemaire from the Hotel de Ville.  And please to take off your kepis, canaille of the markets.

Suddenly I saw riding towards me a Prussian hussar of my old regiment.  He rode alone, but presently I spied two others behind him.  The first was that same sergeant Strauss who had knocked me about so grievously when first I joined the colours.  At that time I hated the sight of him, but now it was the best I could do to keep down the German “Hoch!” which rose to the top of my throat and stopped there all of a lump.

Listen!  The gamins and vauriens of the quarters—­louts and cruel rabble—­were running after him—­yes, screaming all about him.  There were groups of National Guards looking for their regiments, or marauding to pick up what they could lay their hands on, for it was a great time for patriotism.  But Strauss of the Blaue Husaren, he sat his horse stiff and steady as at parade, and looked out under his eyebrows while the mob howled and surged.  Himmel!  It made me proud.  Ach, Gott! but the old badger-grey Strauss sat steady, and rode his horse at a walk—­easy, cool as if he were going up Unter den Linden on Mayday under the eyes of the pretty girls.  Not that ever old Strauss cared as much for maids’ eyes as I would have done—­ah me, in Siebenzig!

Then came two men behind him, looking quickly up the side-streets, with carbines ready across their saddles.  And so they rode, these three, like true Prussians every one.  And I swear it took Jacob Oertler, that was Jules of the Midi, all his possible to keep from crying out; but he could not for his life keep down the sobs.  However, the Frenchmen thought that he wept to see the disgrace of Paris.  So that, and nothing else, saved him.