On the evening of the same day Labouchere took his strolls abroad, and came to the Avenue de L'Impératrice, where he found a large crowd gazing upon the Fort of Mont Valérien. This fort, from being the strongest for defence, was particularly beloved by the Parisians. "They love it as a sailor loves his ship," writes Labouchere. He witnessed the following incident: "If I were near enough," said a young {131} girl, "I would kiss it." "Let me carry your kiss to it," responded a Mobile, and the pair embraced, amid the cheers of the people around them. The question of domestic economy had not yet become a pressing one, as far as the "besieged resident" was concerned. He was lodged _au quatrième_ at the Grand Hotel, and wrote during the first week of the siege: "I presume if the siege lasts long enough, dogs, rats, and cats will be tariffed. I have got a thousand francs with me. It is impossible to draw upon England; consequently, I see a moment coming when, unless rats are reasonable, I shall not be able to afford myself the luxury of one oftener than once a week." And a fortnight later he writes: "My landlord presents me every week with my bill. The ceremony seems to please him, and does me no harm. I have pasted upon my mantelpiece the decree of the Government adjourning payment of rent, and the right to read and re-read this document is all that he will get from me until the end of the siege. Yesterday I ordered myself a warm suit of clothes; I chose a tailor with a German name, so I feel convinced he will not venture to ask for payment under the present circumstances, and if he does he will not get it. If my funds run out before the siege is over, I shall have at least the pleasure to think that this has not been caused by improvidence." He wrote to his mother on October 10, as follows: "I send this by balloon. The smaller the letter, the more chance it has to go. We are all thriving in here, though we have heard absolutely nothing from the outside world for a fortnight. I don't know if my letters to the _Daily News_ arrive. Yesterday, I could only get sheeps' trotters and pickled cauliflower for dinner. We boast awfully of what we are going to do, but, as yet, all our sorties have been driven back, and our forts stun our ears by firing upon stray rabbits and Uhlans. If ever my letters to the _Daily News_ do not arrive and come back here, I shall be shot, but I don't think that they will. I am convinced that the {132} provisions will soon give out. We go about saying that we cannot be beaten, because we have made a 'pact with death.'"