the bayonets. We decided to leave, whereupon M. Dupont White, a man

distinguished for his noble character and his talent, offered us a

refuge at his house, 11, Rue Monthabor. We went out by the back-door of

Grévy's house, which led into 1, Rue Fontaine Molière, but leisurely,

and two by two, Madier de Montjau with Versigny, Michel de Bourges with

Carnot, myself arm-in-arm with Jules Favre. Jules Favre, dauntless and

smiling as ever, wrapped a comforter over his mouth, and said, "I do not

much mind being shot, but I do mind catching cold."

Jules Favre and I reached the rear of Saint Roch, by the Rue des

Moulins. The Rue Veuve Saint Roch was thronged with a mass of affrighted

passers-by, who came from the Boulevards flying rather than walking. The

men were talking in a loud voice, the women screaming. We could hear the

cannon and the ear-piercing rattle of the musketry. All the shops were

being shut. M. de Falloux, arm-in-arm with M. Albert de Rességuier, was

striding down the Rue de Saint Roch and hurrying to the Rue Saint

Honoré. The Rue Saint Honoré presented a scene of clamorous agitation.

People were coming and going, stopping, questioning one another,

running. The shopkeepers, at the threshold of their half-opened doors,

asked the passers-by what was taking place, and were only answered by

this cry, "Oh, my God!" People came out of their houses bareheaded and

mingled with the crowd. A fine rain was falling. Not a carriage in the

street. At the corner of the Rue Saint Roch and Rue Saint Honoré we

heard voices behind us saying, "Victor Hugo is killed."

"Not yet," said Jules Favre, continuing to smile, and pressing my arm.

They had said the same thing on the preceding day to Esquiros and to

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The History of a Crime