The cannonading has been heard since morning. Ah! that sound, which, during the siege, made our hearts beat with hope,—yes, with hope, for it made us believe in a possible deliverance—how horrible it was this morning. I went towards the Champs Elysées. Paris was deserted. Had it understood at last that its honour, its existence even, were at stake in this revolution, or was it only not up yet? Battalions were marching along the boulevards, with music playing. They were going towards the Place Vendôme, and were singing. The _cantinières_ were carrying guns. Some one told me that men had been at work all night in the neighbourhood of the Hôtel de Ville, and that the streets adjoining it were blocked with barricades. But in fact no one knows anything, except that there is fighting in Neuilly, that the “Royalists” have attacked, and that “our brothers are being slaughtered.” A few groups are assembled in the Place de la Concorde. I approach, and find them discussing the question of the rents,—yes, of the rents! Ah! it is certain those who are being killed at this moment will not have to pay their landlord. On reaching the Rond Point I can distinctly perceive a compact crowd round the Triumphal Arch, and I meet some tired National Guards who are returning from the battle. They are ragged, dusty, and dreary. “What has happened?”—“We are betrayed!” says one.—“Death to the traitors!” cries another. No certain news from the field of battle. A runaway, seated outside a café amidst a group of eager questioners, recounts that the barricade at the Neuilly bridge has been attacked by _sergents de ville_ dressed as soldiers, and Pontifical Zouaves carrying a white flag.—“A parliamentary flag?” asks some one.—“No! a royalist flag,” answered the runaway.—“And the barricade has been taken?”—“We had no cartridges; we had not eaten for twenty-four hours; of course we had to decamp.” Farther on a soldier of the line affirms that the barricade has been taken again. The cannon roars still. Mont Valérien is firing, it is said, on the Courbevoie barracks, where a battalion of Federal guards was stationed yesterday.—“But they were off before daybreak,” adds the soldier. As I continue my road the groups become more numerous. I lift my head and see a shell burst over the Avenue of the Grande Armée, leaving a puff of white smoke hanging for a few seconds like a cloud-flake detached by the wind.