We could say nothing; but we, too, were very happy to see the little baroness.

“Now, then, Hermance,” continued the little baroness, “let us hunt around a little.  What can I take to Bordeaux?  After such disasters I must have quiet and sombre dresses.”

“Madame hasn’t very many.”

“I beg your pardon, Hermance, I have dark dresses—­this one and that one.  The blue velvet dress!  The blue velvet dress is just the thing, and I’ve never worn it.”

And so my neighbor the blue dress was taken down, and was at last going to make her first appearance in the world.  However, the little baroness herself, with great activity, rummaged round in the wardrobes.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said; “four or five dresses only.  All the rest are impossible, and would not accord with the Government we shall have in Bordeaux.  Well, I shall be obliged to have some republican dresses made—­very moderate republican, but still republican.”

The little baroness went away, to come back a month later, always with Hermance, who was an excellent maid, and much thought of by her mistress.  New deliberation.

“Hermance,” said the little baroness, “what can I take to Versailles?  I think we shall be able to have a little more freedom.  There will be receptions and dinners with M. Thiers; then the princes are coming.  I might risk transition dresses.  Do you know what I mean by that, Hermance—­transition dresses?”

“Perfectly, madame—­pearl grays, mauves, violets, lilacs.”

“Yes, that’s it, Hermance; light but quiet colors.  You are an invaluable maid.  You understand me perfectly.”

The little baroness started for Versailles with a collection of transition dresses.  There must have been twenty.  It was a good beginning, and filled us with hope.  She had begun at Bordeaux with sombre colors, and continued on at Versailles with light ones, Versailles was evidently only a stepping-stone between Bordeaux and Paris.  The little baroness was soon coming back to Paris, and once the little baroness was in Paris we could feel assured that we should not stay long in the wardrobes.

But it happened that a few days after the departure of the little baroness for Versailles we heard loud firing beneath the windows of the house (we lived in the Place Vendome).  Was it another revolt, another revolution?  For a week nothing more was heard; there was silence.  Then at the end of that week the cannonade began around Paris worse than ever.  Was the war recommencing with the Prussians?  Was it a new siege?

The days passed, and the boom of the cannon continued.  Finally, one morning there was a great racket in the court-yard of our house.  Cries, threats, oaths!  The noise came up and up.  Great blows with the butt ends of muskets were struck on the wardrobe doors.  They were smashed in and we perceived eight or ten slovenly looking, dirty, and bearded men.  Among these men was a woman, a little brunette; fairly pretty, I must say, but queerly gotten up.  A black dress with a short skirt, little boots with red bows, a round gray felt hat with a large red plume, and a sort of red scarf worn crosswise.  It was a peculiar style, but it was style all the same.