In the summer of 1870 Amedee, being tired of Paris, thought of a new trip, and he was upon the point of going again, unfortunate fellow! to see the Swiss porters who speak all the languages in the world, and to view the melancholy boots in the hotel corridors, when the war broke out.  The poet’s passage through the midst of the revolutionary “beards” in the Cafe de Seville, and the parliamentary cravats in the Countess’s drawing-room, had disgusted him forever with politics.  He also was very suspicious of the Liberal ministers and all the different phases of the malady that was destroying the Second Empire.  But Amedee was a good Frenchman.  The assaults upon the frontiers, and the first battles lost, made a burning blush suffuse his face at the insult.  When Paris was threatened he asked for arms, like the others, and although he had not a military spirit, he swore to do his duty, and his entire duty, too.  One beautiful September morning he saw Trochu’s gilded cap passing among the bayonets; four hundred thousand Parisians were there, like himself, full of good-will, who had taken up their guns with the resolve to die steadfast.  Ah, the misery of defeat!  All these brave men for five months could only fidget about the place and eat carcases.  May the good God forgive the timid and the prattler!  Alas!  Poor old France!  After so much glory!  Poor France of Jeanne d’Arc and of Napoleon!

CHAPTER XVI

IN TIME OF WAR

The great siege lasted nearly three months.  Upon the thirtieth of November they had fought a battle upon the banks of the Marne, then for twenty-four hours the fight had seemed to slacken, and there was a heavy snow-storm; but they maintained that the second of December would be decisive.  That morning the battalion of the National Guard, of which Amedee Violette was one, went out for the first time, with the order simply to hold themselves in reserve in the third rank, by the fort’s cannons, upon a hideous plain at the east of Paris.

Truly this National Guard did not make a bad appearance.  They were a trifle awkward, perhaps, in their dark-blue hooded cloaks, with their tin-plate buttons, and armed with breech-loading rifles, and encumbered with canteens, basins, and pouches, all having an unprepared and too-new look.  They all came from the best parts of the city, with accelerated steps and a loud beating of drums, and headed, if you please, by their major on horseback, a truss-maker, who had formerly been quartermaster of the third hussars.  Certainly they only asked for service; it was not their fault, after all, if one had not confidence in them, and if they were not sent to the front as soon as they reached the fortifications.  While crossing the drawbridge they had sung the Marseillaise like men ready to be shot down.  What spoiled their martial appearance, perhaps, were their strong hunting-boots, their leather leggings, knit gloves,