Versaillais have taken the barricades on the Place de la Concorde.—“By Jove! I think you had better go home,” says my neighbour to me, as he clasps his sword belt; “we shall have hot work here, and that shortly.” I think it prudent to follow this advice. One glance at the Place before I go. The companies of Federals have just started off by the Rue de Rivoli and the quays at a quick march, crying “Vive la Commune!” a ferocious joy beaming in their faces. A young man, almost a lad, lags a little behind, a woman rushes up to him, and lays hold of his collar, screaming, “Well, and you, are you not going to get yourself killed with the others?” [Illustration: Barricade Dividing the Rue de Rivoli and The Place De La Concorde] I reach the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, where another barricade is being built up. I place a paving-stone upon it and pass on. Soon I see open shops and passengers in the streets. This tradesmen’s quarter seems to have outlived the riot of Paris. Here one might almost forget the frightful civil war which wages so near, if the conversation of those around did not betray the anguish of the speakers, and if you did not hear the cannon roaring out unceasingly, “People of Paris, listen to me! I am ruining your houses. Listen to me! I am killing your children.” On the boulevards more barricades; some nearly finished, others scarcely commenced. One constructed near the Porte Saint Martin looks formidable. That spot seems destined to be the theatre of bloody scenes, of riot and revolution. In 1852, corpses laid piled up behind the railing, and all the pavement tinged with blood. I return home profoundly sad; I can scarcely think.—I feel in a dream, and am tired to death; my eyelids droop of themselves; I am like one of those houses there with closed shutters.