Well, first of all, came the dishevelled, dusty confusion of a _déménagement_ in the rue Condorcet. The study walls were stripped of their revolvers; the basement was cleared of the printing-press that produced the murderous _Anti-Juif_; huge packing-cases were passed into a number of furniture vans; and so, farewell to the stony garden—in which not an “enemy” lay buried; and _en route_ to No. 12 rue de Chabrol, a commodious, massive building with large windows and a solid oak door. The arrival of Jules Guérin and his assistants caused consternation amongst the peaceful, bourgeois inhabitants of the street. Lurid Anti-Semitic posters were stuck to the walls of No. 12; the din of the printing-machines disturbed the neighbours—and Guérin’s voice of thunder (execrating the Jews and demanding the lives of his enemies) was to be heard through the open windows, while his enormous sombrero was another disquieting element in the orderly, dull thoroughfare. The Anti-Semitic lectures and plays were announced; a solicitor and a doctor were engaged—and Paris was invited to visit No. 12 rue de Chabrol and partake of its pleasures and advantages. Then came the suggestion in the _Anti-Juif_ that Paris should fix a day and an hour when the Jews should be hanged on the boulevard lamp-posts. And then followed the resolution of the Government—to have done with Jules Guérin! A warrant was issued for his arrest on the charge of “incitement to rebellion.” Somehow or other the news reached No. 12; and when the Commissary of Police (armed with his warrant) rang at the oak door, the massive form of Guérin appeared at a window. “Bandit,” he shouted. “There are twenty of us in here: and not one of us will be taken alive. Tell the Government of Traitors we shall fight to the death.” And he flourished a revolver, and his assistants, assembled behind him in the window, cheered wildly. Away went the Commissary of Police for further orders. Up came MM. Drumont, Millevoye and other leading Anti-Semites with exhortations to surrender. But Guérin, from his window, reiterated his determination to die heroically at his post: and again the young men with the bull-dog faces cheered enthusiastically. And there were cries of “Mon Dieu, quelle affaire!” and angry protests, lamentations and tears amongst the shopkeepers and peaceful old _rentiers_ of the street. Many of them put up their shutters and fled, when policemen and Municipal Guards marched up and stationed themselves outside No. 12. Jules Guérin greeted them with cries of “Assassins!”; shook his great fist threateningly; rushed from window to window, shouting forth abuse. More cheering from his assistants, who pointed guns at the authorities. “It is a revolution,” cried the householders. “Let us save ourselves quickly.”