Mazzini, and through them were brought into close, though mysterious, relations with the revolutionary party in Italy and also in France.  They witnessed the last great act of the Papacy at the Vatican Council; and then, early in 1870, they established themselves in Paris.  French society was at that moment in a strange state of tension and unrest.  The impending calamity of the Franco-German War was not foreseen; but everyone knew that the Imperial throne was rocking; that the soil was primed by Secret Societies; and that all the elements of revolution were at hand, and needed only some sudden concussion to stir them into activity.  This was a condition which exactly suited my cousin Evelyn Brentford.  She was “at the height of the circumstances,” and she gathered round her, at her villa on the outskirts of Paris, a society partly political, partly Bohemian, and wholly Red.  “Do come,” she wrote, “and stay with us at Easter.  I can’t promise you a Revolution; but it’s quite on the cards that you may come in for one.  Anyhow, you will see some fun.”  I had some difficulty in inducing my parents (sound Whigs) to give the necessary permission; but they admitted that at seventeen a son must be trusted, and I went off rejoicing to join the Brentfords at Paris.  Those three weeks, from the 12th of April to the 4th of May, 1870, gave me, as the boys now say, “the time of my life.”  I met a great many people whose names I already knew, and some more of whom we heard next year in the history of the Commune.  The air was full of the most sensational rumours, and those who hoped “to see the last King strangled in the bowels of the last priest” enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

My cousin Evelyn was always at home to her friends on Sunday and Wednesday evenings, and her rooms were thronged by a miscellaneous crowd in which the Parisian accent mingled with the tongues of America and Italy, and the French of the southern provinces.  At one of these parties I was talking to a delightful lady who lived only in the hope of seeing “the Devil come for that dog” (indicating by this term an Imperial malefactor), and who, when exhausted by regicidal eloquence, demanded coffee.  As we approached the buffet, a man who had just put down his cup turned round and met my companion and me face to face.  Two years and a half had made no difference in him.  He was Mr. Aulif, as active and fresh as ever, and, before I had time to reflect on my course, I had impulsively seized him by the hand.  “Don’t you remember me?” I cried.  He only stared.  “My name is George Russell, and you visited me at Harrow.”  “I fear, sir, you have made a mistake,” said Aulif, bowed rather stiffly to my companion, and hurried back into the drawing-room.  My companion looked surprised.  “The General seems put out—­I wonder why.  He and I are the greatest allies.  Let me tell you, my friend, that he is the man that the Revolution will have to rely on when the time comes for rising.  Ask them at Saint-Cyr.  Ask Garibaldi.  Ask McClellan.  Ask General Grant.  He is the greatest General in the world, and has sacrificed his career for Freedom.”  “Is his name Aulif?” “No; his name is Cluseret.”