“Eh, I remember him very well. He loved Madame a great deal, and Madame loved him; I think he was her godfather. He was here in good King Philippe’s time. _Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!_ we were well enough under good King Philippe, but now it is _à bas_ this and _à bas_ that, and _vive_ this and _vive_ that, and we shall never have done until we have cut every body’s throat. _A bas les émeutes_, say I; poor Monsieur Charles and Madame were killed in an _émeute_.” And then, amid many crosses and many sobs, she told how Paqueta had died. “On the morning of the 25th of June, 1848, only four short months after Lamartine had proclaimed the Republic, with liberty, equality and fraternity as its watch-words—when the fight raged hottest at the Clos St. Lazare, Paqueta called to her the wife of the commissaire. ‘You,’ said she, ‘were born in Paris, and know all its streets and blind, crooked ways; be quick, put on that dress, and go with me.’ ‘I thought my good lady mad,’ said the commissaire’s wife, ‘for she stood before me habited in male attire, with a gentleman’s hat upon her head, and the dress she offered me was like her own. But she looked so firm, and so fearful, too, and her words were so hoarse and had such a command in them, that I obeyed without knowing why. ‘Now, no one will know us,’ said Madame; ‘do you hear that terrible cannon! For two days it has boomed in my ears, and in all that time Charles has not been with me. My God! my God! they are slaughtering the people in the streets, and he is in the battle!’ What could I do? The little creature, so soft, so pretty, so mild, so loving to all about her, looked like a giant, and I hastened after her, afraid to cry out, afraid to say any thing, as she rushed ever forward in search of her husband. Where the noise was greatest, where the shout was loudest, she ran to catch it, crying, ‘Come, quickly, quickly.’ Oh, monsieur, the poor people! Oh, monsieur, the blood, the dying, and the dead! And Madame heeding nothing of all that, but still crying, ‘Come, quickly, quickly.’ _Mon Dieu, Monsieur, à bas les émeutes!_ The strife grew nearer every step we made, the combatants fleeing and pursuing, grew thicker, and when we entered the Clos St. Lazare, we saw the roar of the battle. ‘Ah, there is Monsieur Charles!’ said I. Madame sprang from me at the word, and was soon at his side fighting with the rest; _oui_, monsieur, fighting with a musket which she snatched from a falling soldier’s grasp. Monsieur, _quel horreur_! I could neither fly nor go forward, but stood where I was, and watched the war, until I saw Charles go down—and then Madame, _comme un tigre_, sprang upon the _ouvrier_ who struck him, and was avenged, and sank not to rise any more. Oh, monsieur, _quel horreur_!”