the situation. He followed rather than led public opinion. Success is the criterion of ability in this country, and poor Trochu is as politically dead as though he never had lived." As time wore on the question of meals in the besieged city naturally became one of absorbing moment. "I went," says Labouchere, on December 21, "to see what was going on in the house of a friend of mine, in the Avenue de L'Impératrice, who has left Paris. The servant who was in charge told me that up there they had not been able to obtain bread for three days, and that the last time he had presented his ticket, he had been given about half an inch of cheese. 'How do you live then?' I asked. After looking mysteriously round to see that no one was watching us, he took me down into the cellar, and pointed to some meat in a barrel. 'It is half a horse,' he said, in the tone of a man who is showing some one the corpse of his murdered victim. 'A neighbouring coachman killed him, and we salted him down, and divided him.' Then he opened a closet in which sat a huge cat. 'I am fattening her up for Christmas day; {138} we mean to serve her up, surrounded with mice like sausages,' he observed." On January 6 Labouchere notes: "Yesterday I had a slice of Pollux for dinner. Pollux and his brother Castor are two elephants, which have been killed. It was tough, coarse, and oily, and I do not recommend English families to eat elephant as long as they can get beef or mutton. Many of the restaurants are closed, owing to want of fuel. They are recommended to use lamps; but although French cooks can do wonders with very poor materials, when they are called upon to cook an elephant with a spirit lamp the thing is almost beyond their ingenuity. Castor and Pollux's trunks sold for forty-five francs a pound; the other parts of the interesting twins fetched about ten francs a pound." He wrote to his mother on January 8[11]: "Here we still are. For the last few days the Prussians have taken to throwing shells into the town, which makes things more lively. I do not think it can last much longer. It is awfully cold, for all the wood is freshly cut and will not burn. The washerwomen have struck as they have no fuel, so we all wear very dirty shirts. I am in a great fright of my money giving out, as none is to be got here. My dress is seedy--in fact falling to pieces. I think I have eaten now of every animal which Noah had in his ark.[12] Since the bombardment the cannon makes a great noise. All night it is as if doors were slamming. Outside the walls it is rather pretty to see the batteries exchanging shots. We have heard nothing from England since September, except from scraps of paper picked out of dead Prussians' pockets." Labouchere was always ready to recall to his memory for conversational purposes the strange food he ate during the siege {139} of Paris. Donkey apparently was his favourite dish. This is what he said on the subject: