I have not seen Auber for many days; Beaumont has not been here either, and we do not know where he is. They still go on issuing some official newspapers, though whether what they contain is true, or how far the imaginations of the editors have lured them into the paths of fiction, we cannot tell. If we live through this _débâcle_ I count on history to tell us what we really have been living through. However, truth or fiction, I am thankful that we have the newspapers, for how would I ever have a moment's sleep if I did not listen to Mr. Moulton's intoning the _Moniteur_ and the _Journal des Débats_ (the _Figaro_ has been suppressed) to us, and we did not have our three-handed drowsy whist to doze over. _May 9th._ While we were at breakfast this morning the servant came rushing in, pale and trembling, and announced to us that pillage had commenced in the Boulevard Haussmann, just around the corner, and that the mob was coming toward our house. We flew to the window, and, sure enough, there we saw a mass of soldiers collected on the other side of the street, in front of the Princess Mathilde's palace, gesticulating and pointing over at us. We thought our last day had come; certainly it did look like a crisis of some kind. We gazed blankly at one another. Mademoiselle disappeared, to seek refuge, I fancy, between the mattresses of her bed, and the smile and the urbane language with which she was prepared to face this emergency (so often predicted by her) disappeared with her. The mob crossed the street, howling and screaming, and on finding the gate locked began to shake it. The frightened _concierge,_ already barricaded in his lodge, took care not to show himself, which infuriated the riotous crowd to such an extent that they yelled at the top of their lungs to have the gate opened. Mr. Moulton sent a scared servant to order the still invisible _concierge_ to open not only one gate, but all three. He obeyed, trembling and quaking with fear. The Communists rushed into the courtyard, and were about to seize the unhappy _concierge,_ when Mr. Moulton, seeing that no one else had the courage to come forward, went himself, like the true American he is,... out on to the _perron_, and I went with him. His first words (in pure Angle-Saxon), "Qu'est-ce que vous voolly?" made the assembled crowd giggle. The leader pushed forward, and, presenting a paper with the official seal of the _Comité de Transport_, demanded, in the name of the Commune (_requisitioned_, they call it), everything we had in the way of animals.