Then came the flight of one set of masters and the entry of another.  But even the Commune and the unknown young men who came to the Hotel de Ville made no change to Jules, the head waiter from the Midi.  He made ready the dejeuner as usual, and the gentlemen of the red sash were just as fond of the calves’ flesh and the red wine as the brutal bourgeoisie of Thiers’ Republic or the aristocrats of the regime of Buonaparte.  It was quite equal.

It was only a little easier to send my weekly report to my Prince and Chancellor out at Saint Denis.  That was all.  For if the gentlemen who went talked little and lined their pockets exceedingly well, these new masters of mine both talked much and drank much.  It was no longer the Commune, but the Proscription.  I knew what the end of these things would be, but I gave no offence to any, for that was not my business.  Indeed, what mattered it if all these Frenchmen cut each other’s throats?  There were just so many the fewer to breed soldiers to fight against the Fatherland, in the war of revenge of which they are always talking.

So the days went on, and there were ever more days behind them—­east-windy, bleak days, such as we have in Pomerania and in Prussia, but seldom in Paris.  The city was even then, with the red flag floating overhead, beautiful for situation—­the sky clear save for the little puffs of smoke from the bombs when they shelled the forts, and Valerien growled in reply.

The constant rattle of musketry came from the direction of Versailles.  It was late one afternoon that I went towards the Halles, and as I went I saw a company of the Guard National, tramping northward to the Buttes Montmartre where the cannons were.  In their midst was a man with white hair at whom I looked—­the same whom we had seen at the market-stalls.  He marched bareheaded, and a pair of the scoundrels held him, one at either sleeve.

Behind him came his daughter, weeping bitterly but silently, and with the salt water fairly dripping upon her plain black dress.

“What is this?” I asked, thinking that the cordon of the Public Safety would pass me, and that I might perhaps benefit my friend of the white locks.

“Who may you be that asks so boldly?” said one of the soldiers sneeringly.

They were ill-conditioned, white-livered hounds.

“Jules the garcon—­Jules of the white apron!” cried one who knew me.  “Know you not that he is now Dictator? Vive the Dictator Jules, Emperor-of ’Encore-un-Bock’!”

So they mocked me, and I dared not try them further, for we came upon another crowd of them with a poor frightened man in the centre.  He was crying out—­“For me, I am a man of peace—­gentlemen, I am no spy.  I have lived all my life in the Rue Scribe.”  But one after another struck at him, some with the butt-end of their rifles, some with their bayonets, those behind with the heels of their boots—­till that which had been a man when I stood on one side of the street, was something which would not bear looking upon by the time that I had passed to the other.  For these horrors were the commonest things done under the rule of Hell—­which was the rule of the Commune.  Then I desired greatly to have done my commission and to be rid of Paris.