It is ten in the morning, and I am out again in search of news. How many things may have happened in two days! Not far from the Hôtel de Ville excited groups are assembled at the corners of the streets that lead out of the Rue de Rivoli. They seem waiting for something—what are they waiting for? Vague rumours, principally of a peaceful and conciliatory nature, circulate from group to group, where women decidedly predominate. “If _they_ help us we are saved!” says a workwoman, who is holding a little boy in the dress of a national guard by the hand.—“Who?” I ask.—“Ah! Monsieur, it is the Freemasons who are taking the side of the Commune; they are going to cross Paris before our eyes. The Commune must be in the right if the Freemasons think so.”—“Here they come!” says the little boy, pulling his mother along with all his strength. [Illustration: Protot[66], Delegate of Justice.] The vehicles draw up on one side to make room, the crowd presses to the edge of the pavement. The drums beat, a military band strikes up the “Marseillaise.” First come five staff-officers, and then six members of the Commune, wearing their red scarfs, fringed with gold. I fancy I recognize Citizens Delescluze and Protot among them. “They are going to the Hôtel de Ville!” cries an enthusiastic butcher-boy, holding a large basket of meat on his head, which he steadies with one hand, while with the other he makes wild signs to two companions on the other side of the way. “I saw them this morning in the Place du Carrousel,” he continues in the same strain. “That was fine, I tell you! And then this battalion came to fetch them, with the music and all. Now they are going to salute the Republic; come along, I say. Double quick time!” So the butcher-boy, and the woman with the child, and myself, and all the rest of the bystanders, turn and follow the eight or ten thousand members of Parisian freemasonry who are crowding along the Rue de Rivoli. In the front and rear of the procession I notice a large number of unarmed men, dressed in loose Zouave trousers of dark-blue cloth, with white gaiters, white bands, and blue jackets. Their heads are mostly bare. I am told these are the Communist sharpshooters. Ever so far on in front of us a large white banner is floating, bearing an inscription which I cannot manage to read on account of the distance. However, the butcher-boy has made it out, and informs us that “Love one another” is written there. Happy, delusive Freemasons! “Tolerate one another” is scarcely practicable! In the meantime we continue to follow at the heels of the procession. There is much shouting and noise, here and there a feeble “_Vive la Commune!_” But the principal cries are, “Down with the murderers! Death to assassins! Down with Versailles!” A Freemason doffs his hat and shouts, “_Vive la Paix!_ It is peace we are going to seek!”