Such a tumult, such a panic in Paris! Houses searched by the police, and hundreds of suspected persons arrested. And in the midst of the panic the good Bohemians of the Latin Quarter also rise, and march with sticks and lanterns to the house of Senator Bérenger, and smash his windows, and groan, and call upon him to come out and be slain on the spot. Unhappy Senator Bérenger, who deemed that the Quat-z-Arts ball—the great annual ball of the students—was improper! “It was Art,” shout the students. “It was a shocking spectacle,” pronounces the Senator. “Come out and be slain,” shout the students. “Arrest them,” orders the Senator. And then—O then—a revolution in the Quarter; then, the wild, terrifying “Seven Days’ Bagarre.” There blaze bonfires; there, arise barricades; there, lie omnibuses overturned on the Boul’ Mich’; there, march furious bands of students who charge and are charged by the police. Mercy, how we march and how we run! On the fifth day, we are bandaged, and we limp, but we resume our manifestations. “Come out and be slain,” we yell, below the Senator’s window. “Arrest them,” orders the Senator. “It was Art,” we almost sob, in the ear of the interviewer. “It was a shocking spectacle,” declares the Senator. “You must, you shall be slain,” we cry in frenzy. And then, in the Quarter, appears the Army; and the Army goes for us; and before such overwhelming odds, we fly; and twenty of us who fly and fly find ourselves at last, dishevelled and breathless, in a dim, deserted side street. Not a sound; we are too much exhausted to speak. A moon and stars, silence and peace. Twenty dishevelled and exhausted students, who sit on the kerbstone, on doorsteps, to rest. And then, all of a sudden, a Cry. A feeble, plaintive Cry from a doorstep: and on the doorstep, a bundle. Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students before the bundle; a bundle—that cries. An amazing discovery, a sensational surprise! The bundle is a Child; the bundle is a _Gosse_; the bundle is a bud of a Girl. Twenty exhausted, dishevelled students strangely in possession of a baby; and who nurse the baby, and who seek to win her confidence, with awkward caresses, and by swinging her to and fro, and by assuring her that she is safe and sound. And, finally, twenty good Bohemians who resolve to adopt the Child, and introduce her formally to their colleagues, and proclaim her before all the good Bohemians of the Rive Gauche: “The Adopted Daughter of the Students of the Latin Quarter.” But, the name, the name? The Saint for the day is Lucie: so, Lucie. The _gosse_ was found on the last night of the Bagarre: so, Bagarre. Thus, with the polite prefix, we get: Mademoiselle Lucie Bagarre.