“All this time,” says the American, who mingled in the crowd and shouted with the rest in his excitement, “it never occurred to me to doubt the accuracy of the news that had so stirred up Paris; for the newspapers on the preceding days had prepared us to expect something of the kind.  All at once, upon the Boulevard, I was aware of a violent altercation going on between a respectable-looking man and a number of infuriated bystanders.  He seemed to be insisting that the whole story of the victory was untrue, and that despatches had been received announcing heavy disasters.  I saw that unlucky citizen hustled about, and finally collared and led off by a policeman, the people pursuing him with cries of ‘Prussian!’ But some time later in the day some persons in a cab drove down the Boulevards with a white banner, inscribed:  THE AUTHOR OF THE FALSE NEWS IS ARRESTED!  This, however, was not the case, for the news was never traced to any person.”

The mob as soon as it began to believe that it had been the victim of some stockjobbing operators, rushed to the Bourse, determined to pull everything to pieces; but the military were there beforehand, and it had to content itself with requiring all householders to pull down the flags which two hours before it had insisted must be hung out.

The Parisians were not easily appeased after this cruel deception, and took their revenge by spreading damaging reports about the Government of the regency, especially accusing the ministers of basely suppressing bulletins from the army, that they might gamble on the stock-exchange.  The chief of the cabinet, Emile Ollivier, was very nearly mobbed; but he pacified the people by a speech made from the balcony of his residence.  He was at the time really unaware that more than one defeat had been sustained.

Hour after hour alarming reports kept coming in; and at last, on August 9, the fatal news of three successive defeats was posted all over the city.  Soon an ominous message, sent by Napoleon III., revealed the full horror of the situation:  “Hasten preparations for the defence of Paris.”

The greatest dismay prevailed.  The Chambers were summoned to an evening session.  The legislators were guarded by cavalry from the mob which surged round the Chamber.  Ollivier and his cabinet were forced to resign, and a new cabinet was hastily installed in office, calling itself the Ministry of National Defence.  Its head was Count Montauban, a man seventy-five years old, who had gained the title of Count Palikao by his notorious campaign in China in 1860, when he sacked the summer palace at Pekin.  M. Thiers had pronounced him far more of a soldier than a statesman.  He was in command of the fourth army corps at Lyons when summoned by the empress-regent to take up the reins of government; but in the course of the unvaried succession of misfortunes which made up the history of the French arms during the month of August, the public statements of Palikao proved as unreliable as those of his predecessor.  His favorite way of meeting inquiries was to say oracularly:  “If Paris knew what I know, the city would be illuminated.”