That day at school was just like any other, but the next, the 27th, as we came back from the College Henri IV, it was easy to see that there was a great stir in Paris Deligny’s swimming school, at the corner of the Quai d’Orsay, where we went after school, according to custom, to take our bath, was full of young men discussing and holding forth, and relating incidents, true or not, which had occurred during the day.  The Place Louis XV., now the Place de la Concorde, was occupied by the troops.  There was a regiment of Foot Guards, a battalion of the Swiss Guard, the Lancers of the Guard, the Artillery of the Military School—­ magnificent troops all of them, the finest I have seen in any country, and of which the English Foot Guards alone in these days give any idea.  Officers inspired in the highest possible degree with esprit de corps and chivalrous devotion, old non-commissioned officers, many of whom had seen the wars of the Empire, commanding seasoned soldiers, young in years but old in discipline and instruction, and all proud of the splendid uniform they wore—­such was the Royal Guard.  And what shall I say of the superb Swiss battalions, acknowledged by ancient tradition to be the finest infantry in the world?  These splendid troops, which might have rendered such great service to France on the battlefield were to disappear within two days.  Upon them too I had looked my last.  Close to the Porte Maillot we met the Duchesse de Berri, riding amongst a numerous group of equerries.  We exchanged friendly greetings.  No doubt her instinct as a woman and a mother led her to try to keep in touch with passing events.

The next morning, the 28th, we knew Paris to be in open revolt.  Cannon boomed, the great bell of Notre-Dame sounded the tocsin, and naturally we did not go to school.  But the masters who gave my sisters lessons came out to Neuilly, and from them, in turn, we learnt what was going on within the capital—­barricades in all the streets—­the troops on the defensive—­the tricolour hoisted everywhere.

On the 29th, the struggle grew closer to us.  A bullet fell whistling in the park.  According to the fugitives from Paris, the insurrection had triumphed, the troops of the line were fraternizing with the rebels, and the Guard was retiring on Saint-Cloud to gather round the King.  I pass over all the rumours and false reports accompanying this news, which was all too true.  And what were we doing during these anxious hours?  We obeyed various impulses.  The first, a fervent sympathy with our soldiers, who were engaged in the struggle—­ces pauvres soldats, the real France, the real people, obeying the noblest motives—­honour—­duty opposing the populace, whose envy and evil instincts had been let loose by a handful of ambitious men.  And we knew no rest till the whole staff of the household had repaired to the various gates of the park, to open them to the soldiers, separated, dispersed, threatened with massacre as they were.  They were brought