The fiacre drivers make the revolution an excuse for asking extravagant fares; this does not prevent their having very decided political opinions. One who, drove one would scarcely have been approved of by the Central Committee.—“_Cocher_, what is the fare?” I ask.—“Five francs, monsieur.”—“All right; take me to the mairie Place Saint-Sulpice.”—“Beg pardon, monsieur, but if you are going to vote, it will be ten francs!” On the Boulevard de Strasbourg there are streams of people dressed in holiday attire; itinerant dealers in tops, pamphlets, souvenirs of the siege—bits of black bread, made on purpose, and framed and glazed, also bits of shells—and scented soap, and coloured pictures; crowds of beggars everywhere. In this part of the town the revolution looks very much like a fair. At the mairie of the 6th Arrondissement there are very few people. I enter into conversation with one of the officials there. He tells me he has never seen voting carried on with greater spirit. I meet a friend who has just returned from Belleville, and ask him the news, of course.—“The voting is progressing in capital order,” he tells me; “the men go up to the poll as they would mount the breach. They have no choice but to obey blindly.”—“The Central Committee?” I inquire.—“Yes, but the Committee itself only obeys orders.”—“Whose?”—“Why those of the International, of course.” At a corner near the boulevards, a compact little knot of people is stationed in front of a poster. I fancy they are studying the proclamation of one of the candidates, but it turns out only to be a play-bill. The crowd continues to thicken; the cafés are crammed; gold chignons are plentiful enough at every table; here and there a red Garibaldi shirt is visible, like poppies amongst the corn. Every now and then a horseman gallops wildly past with dispatches from one section to another. The results of some of the elections are creeping out. At Montrouge, Bercy, Batignolles, and the Marais, they tell us the members of the Central Committee are elected by a very large majority. Here the hoarse voice of a boy strikes in,—“Buy the account of the grand conspiracy of Citoyen Thiers against the Republic!” Then another chimes in with wares of a less political and more vulgar nature. The movement to and fro and the excitement is extraordinary. While the populace basks in the sun the destiny of the city is being decided.—“M. Desmarest is elected for the 9th Arrondissement,” says some one close to me.—“Lesueur is capital in the ‘Partie de Piquet,’” says another. Oh! people of Paris! XIX.