Things had gone too far for any hope of successful official interference. Had Lord Clarendon been out of office, able to go to Paris, and discuss matters face to face with the Emperor, who loved him, his winning ways and sound sense might, at an earlier moment, a few weeks sooner, have had some effect. But chained to a desk in Downing Street, only able to speak, as it were, through an interpreter, and only informed by agents who could not report a secret which was well kept because it did not exist, his power was largely discounted—the personal element was, of course, entirely wanting. Moreover, it was too late; the threat and the execution were simultaneous. Both sides were bent on war, and both were working in a deadly secrecy which has perhaps never been surpassed. The most astute diplomatists, the most practised politicians, were not prepared for the storm that was about to burst; the barometer had given no indication. France was upon the brink of a volcano. Deep below the surface there were underground mutterings and growls which sent shivers of fear through those who knew, and yet, like London, Paris went on laughing with Offenbach, Schneider, Dupuis & Co., and the _cafés chantants_ were never fuller, the _premières_ at the theatres never more a matter of serious importance. The fatal year 1870 had opened prosperously enough in France. The new liberal and quasi-constitutional Government under Emile Ollivier was apparently sailing in smooth waters. All of a sudden a storm burst which went far towards wrecking the ship. On the 10th of January Prince Pierre Bonaparte was sitting quietly in his library at Auteuil when Messieurs Fonvielle and Victor Noir were announced;—two gentlemen who were editors or sub-editors of Rochefort’s republican newspaper, the _Marseillaise_. They came to call the Prince to account for an article which had appeared in a Corsican newspaper. The Prince, taken by surprise, pulled out a pistol and shot Victor Noir, while Fonvielle made his escape. It is easy to imagine the cry that would be raised among the republicans by the death of one of their prophets at the hands of a member of the hated family. It is not so easy to describe the concentrated rage with which Rochefort, that master of vituperation, lashed the Emperor and the Government. The Empress told Lord Lyons that matters would have been worse “under the old _régime_”; that, however, is hard to believe. What is strange is that an event which so profoundly stirred all France, which was so pregnant with results, should be so little noticed by the publicists of to-day. Pierre Bonaparte was acquitted and left France, but he had sown the seed of an ineradicable canker.