At this moment, stealing from a porte-cochere where she had taken refuge during the fright and _sauve gui peut_, came a figure wrapped in dark drapery. Could it be possible? Hermione Leare! In a moment I was at her side. She was very pale and breathless, and she was glad to take my arm. "What brings you here?" I whispered. "Our servants have all run away: they think mamma is compromised. Victor, our chasseur, broke open mamma's secretary and took his wages. She is almost beside herself. She wanted to send a letter to the post, and as it is steamer-day I thought papa had better know that thus far nothing has happened to us. There was nobody to take the letter: I said I would put it in the box in the Rue Ponthieu." "And did you post it?" "No: I could not get to the Rue Ponthieu. They were firing down the street, and now I dare not." "Trust it to me, Miss Leare, and promise me to send for me if you have any more such errands. You must never run such risks again." "I have to be the man of the family," she answered, almost with an apologetic air. "Do not say that again. I shall come over three times a day while this thing lasts to see if you have any commissions." She smiled and pressed my hand as she turned into her own porte-cochere. Frightened servants and their friends were in the porter's lodge, who gazed after her with exclamations as she went up the common stair. The remainder of that day passed with very little fighting. Up to that time it had been a riot apropos of a change of ministry, but in the night the secret societies met and flung aside the previous question. When we awoke on Wednesday morning, February 23d, we were struck by the strange quiet of the streets. No provisions entered Paris through the barrier, no vehicles nor venders of small wares. The absolute silence, save when "Mourir pour la Patrie" sounded hoarsely in the distance, was as strange as it was unexpected. I had always connected an insurrection with noise. It was rumored that Guizot the Unpopular had been dismissed, and that Count Mole, a man of half measures, had been called to the king's councils. The affair looked to me as if it were going to die out for want of fuel. But I was mistaken: the blouses, who had not had one gun to a hundred the day before, had been all night arming themselves by domiciliary requisitions. The national guard was not believed to be firm. The night before, an hour after I had parted with Miss Hermione, I had made an attempt to see her and Mrs. Leare, without any success. Not even bribery would induce the concierge to let me in. His orders were peremptory: "_Pas un seul, monsieur, personne_"--madame received nobody.