“Please give this bouquet to Guérin. He is a real man; he is _épatant_—do please send him these flowers,” cried a brilliant _demi-mondaine_ from Maxim’s, holding forth a bouquet of weird orchids. “Alas, madame,” replied the facetious officer; “alas, not even a bouquet from paradise could I possibly allow to pass.” Ominous sounds in the rue de Chabrol. The thud and the clanking of the firemen’s hose as it was dragged towards No. 12; the increased hissing of the steam-engines; the impatient clatter of the horses’ hoofs; the bolting and barring of doors, and the putting up of shutters in those few houses where residents remained. Ominous, too, the consultations (carried on in a low voice) between M. Lépine and the various officials. Then the flash of lanterns, the smoke pouring forth from the funnels of the steam-engines, the stench of the disinfectants, those shadowy figures still on the roof of Fort Chabrol; and Jules Guérin still at his window in his sombrero, still smoking cigarettes unconcernedly, still calmly watching the preparations for the attack. “It is sinister,” cried a journalist. “So all is ready,” rang out the voice of the Chief of the Police. Briskly stepping forward, M. Lépine thus addressed Jules Guérin: “It is a quarter to four o’clock. If, at four o’clock, you do not surrender, we shall use force.” Jules Guérin smoked on. Still nearer to the Fort came the _pompiers_, dragging their hose. The plan was that they should deluge the massive building with water, while their colleagues with the shining hatchets should break down the door. A last consultation between M. Lépine and the officials. He held his watch in his hand. Five minutes to four o’clock. The neighing of a restive horse. Shouts and song from behind the barrier. Again, the clanking of the hose. Three... two... minutes to four. Jules Guérin, striking a match, lighted a new cigarette. “He means to fight. It will be appalling,” exclaimed a journalist. “Jules Guérin, it is four o’clock,” cried M. Lépine, again stepping forward. Without a word, the man in the sombrero banged down the window, and a few moments later the shadowy figures of his assistants disappeared from the roof. “I thought so, but I wasn’t sure—no, I wasn’t sure,” said M. Lépine—when the heavy oak door swung open! A third time he stepped forward—entered the doorway—vanished—reappeared to give an order—again vanished. Up with the hose, into the gutter with the fire-engines; way for half-a-dozen ordinary, shabby _fiacres_ which came bumping and lurching down the street, pulled up before the oak door: and a few minutes later took Jules Guérin and the young men with the bull-dog faces ingloriously away to the Santé prison! “N’en Parlons Plus,” said Paris, when the Senate, assembled as a High Court, sentenced Jules Guérin, Paul Déroulède, and other rebels and conspirators against the safety of the Republic to long terms of imprisonment and exile.