The Pont de l’Institut, notwithstanding the efforts of the garde municipale or mounted police, was greatly crowded.  A party of dragoons, on sorrel ponies barely fourteen hands high, rode up and began to clear the bridge, but gently and gradually.  The crowd was retiring as fast as its numbers would permit, when some of the municipal guard rode through the ranks of the dragoons and set themselves, with ill-judged roughness, to accelerate the operation.  The crowd grew angry, and stones began to be thrown at the guard and soldiers.

Growing anxious for the women I had left in the Rue Neuve de Berri, I returned home by side-streets.  A crowd had collected on the Champs Elysees about thirty yards from the corner of our street, and was forming a barricade.  All were shouting, all gesticulating.  Citadines at full speed were driving out of reach of requisition; horses were going off disencumbered of their vehicles; the driver of a remise was seated astride his animal, the long flaps of his driving-coat covering it from neck to tail; a noble elm was being hewn down by hatchets and even common knives.  An omnibus, the remise, a few barrels and dining-tables, a dozen yards of pave torn up by eager hands, a sentry-box, some benches and the tree, formed the barricade. Gamins and blouses worked at it.  The respectables looked on and did not trouble the workers.  Suddenly there was a general stampede among them.  A squadron of about fifty dragoons charged up the Champs Elysees.  One old peasant-woman in a scanty yellow-and-black skirt, which she twitched above her knees, led the retreat.  But soon they stopped and turned again, while the dragoons rode slowly back, breathing their horses.  Nobody was angry, for nobody had been hurt, but they were frightened enough.

At this moment, stealing from a porte-cochere where she had taken refuge during the fright and sauve gui peut, came a figure wrapped in dark drapery.  Could it be possible?  Hermione Leare!  In a moment I was at her side.  She was very pale and breathless, and she was glad to take my arm.  “What brings you here?” I whispered.

“Our servants have all run away:  they think mamma is compromised.  Victor, our chasseur, broke open mamma’s secretary and took his wages.  She is almost beside herself.  She wanted to send a letter to the post, and as it is steamer-day I thought papa had better know that thus far nothing has happened to us.  There was nobody to take the letter:  I said I would put it in the box in the Rue Ponthieu.”

“And did you post it?”

“No:  I could not get to the Rue Ponthieu.  They were firing down the street, and now I dare not.”

“Trust it to me, Miss Leare, and promise me to send for me if you have any more such errands.  You must never run such risks again.”

“I have to be the man of the family,” she answered, almost with an apologetic air.

“Do not say that again.  I shall come over three times a day while this thing lasts to see if you have any commissions.”