The immense edifice of the post-office was surrounded by people, and its numerous windows were flashing with lights. Within the utmost activity seemed to prevail, and without couriers were leaving and arriving every moment, and mail coaches were dashing up to discharge their burdens, or, having received them, were dashing off. "In the name of the people, entrance for Citizen Etienne Arago, Republican director of the post-office!" shouted one of the committee. Instantly a passage through the immense crowd in the courtyard was cleared by the National Guard, and the director entered with his escort. "In the name of the people, Citizen Dejean, you are dismissed," said Etienne Arago, entering the private cabinet of the Director General. "And who is to be my successor?" asked the astonished Count, rising to his feet. "In the name of the people, I am sent to displace and to succeed you," was the answer. "But your commission, Monsieur?" "Is here," pointing to the committee. "Before I resign the direction of this department," said the Count after some hesitation, "I must ask of you for some record of this act, bearing your signature, to be deposited in the archives of the office." "Certainly, Monsieur, your request is but reasonable," answered Arago, seating himself in the official chair. And writing a few lines to which he affixed his signature, he coolly handed the document to his astonished predecessor. It contained notice of his own appointment by the people, in place of the Count Dejean, dismissed. The Count read and folded the paper, and having made a copy of it, which he laid carefully in his porte-monnaie, he placed the original on file among the papers of the day belonging to the department. Then, courteously bowing, he took his hat and cane and marched out of the building. CHAPTER XXV. THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT. In the Hotel de Ville, closely closeted, sat the Provisional Government of France. Over that stern old citadel, over the dismantled Palace of the Tuileries, from the tall summit of the Column of Vendome, over the Hotel des Invalides and in the Place de la Bastille is seen a blood-red banner, streaming out like a meteor on the keen north-western blast. Eighty thousand armed men invest the Hotel de Ville, and wave on wave, wave on wave, the living and stormy tide eddies and welters and dashes around that dark old pile. All its avenues are held; its courts are thronged; ordnance frowns from its black portals and against its gates; drums roll--banners stream--bayonets glitter; and from those tens of thousands of hoarse and stormy voices goes up but one shout of menace and command: "Vive la Republique! Vive la Republique! No kings! No Bourbons! Down--down forever with the kings!"