This morning I took a walk in the most innocent manner, having committed no crime that I knew of. It was lovely weather, and the streets looked gay, as they generally do when it is very bright, even when the hearts of the people are most sad. I passed through the Rue Saint-Honoré, the Palais Royal, and finally the Rue Richelieu. I beg pardon for these details, but I am particularly careful in indicating the road I took, as I wish the inhabitants of the places in question, to bear witness that I did not steal in passing a single quartern loaf, or appropriate the smallest article of jewellery. As I was about to turn on to the boulevards, one of the four National Guards who were on duty, I do not know what for, at the corner of the street, cried out, “You can’t pass!” All right, thought I to myself; there is nothing fresh I suppose, only the Commune does not want people to pass; of course, it has right on its side. Thereupon I began to retrace my steps. “You can’t pass,” calls out another sentinel, by the time I have reached the other side of the street. This is strange, the Commune cannot mean to limit my walk to a melancholy pacing up and down between two opposite pavements. A sergeant came up to me; I recognised him as a Spaniard, who during the siege belonged to my company. “Why are you not in uniform?” he asked me, with a roughness that I fancied was somewhat mitigated by the remembrance of the many cigars I had given him, the nights we were on guard during the siege. I understood in an instant what they wanted with me, and replied unhesitatingly, “Because it is not my turn to be on guard,”—“No, of course it’s not, it never is. You have been taking your ease this long time, while others have been getting killed.” It was evident this Spaniard had not taken the cigars I had given him, in good part, and was now revenging himself.—“What do you want with me?” I said; “let’s have done with this.” Instead of answering, he signed to two Federals standing near, who immediately placed themselves one on each side of me, and cried, “March!” I was perfectly agreeable, although this walk was not exactly in the direction I had intended. On the way I heard a woman say, “Poor young man I They have taken him in the act.” I was conducted to the church of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, and marched into the vestry, where about fifty _réfractaires_ were already assembled.