Never have I seen the dawn break with greater pleasure. Almost everyone has some time in his life passed such sleepless nights, when it seems to him that the darkness will never disappear, and the desire for light and day becomes a fearful longing. Never was dawn more grateful than after that wretched night. And yet the fear of a disastrous collision did not disappear with the night. It was even likely that the Federals might have waited for the morning to begin their attack, just when fatigue is greatest, sleep most difficult to fight against, and therefore discipline necessarily slackened. Anyhow, the light seemed to reassure us; we could scarcely believe that the crime of civil war could be perpetrated in the day-time. The night had been full of fears, the morning found us bright and happy. Not all of us, however. I smile as I remember an incident which occurred a little before daylight. One of our comrades, who had been lying near me, got up, went out into the street, and paced up and down some time, as if to shake off cramp or cold. My eyes followed him mechanically; he was walking in front of the houses, the backs of which look out upon the Passage des Panoramas, and as he did so he cast furtive glances through the open doorways. He went into one, and came out with a disappointed expression on his face. Having repeated this strange manoeuvre several times, he reached a porte-cochÈre that was down by the side of the Restaurant Catelain. He remained a few minutes, then reappeared with a beaming countenance, and made straight for where I was standing, rubbing his hands gleefully.

“Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, so as not to be overheard, “do you approve of this plan of action, which consists, in case of attack, of shooting from the windows on the assailants?”—“A necessity of street fighting,” said I. “Let us hope we shall not have to try it.”—“Oh! of course; but I should have preferred it if they had taken other measures.”—“Why?” I asked.—“Why, you see, when we are in the houses the insurgents will try to force their way in.”—I could not see what he was driving at, so I said, “Most probably.”—“But if they do get in?” he insisted:—“I will trust to our being reinforced from the Place de la Bourse before they can effect an entrance.”—“Doubtless! doubtless!” he answered; but I saw he was anything but convinced.—“But you know reinforcements often arrive too late, and if the Federals should get in, we shall be shot down like dogs in those rooms overhead!”—I acknowledged that this would be, to say the least, disagreeable, but argued that in time of war one must take one’s chance.—“Do you think, then, monsieur,” he continued, “that, if in the event of the insurgents entering we were to look out for a back door to escape by, we should be acting the part of cowards?”—“Of cowards? no; but of excessively prudent individuals? yes.”:—“Well, monsieur, I am prudent, and there is an end of it!” exclaimed my comrade, with an air of triumph, “and I think I have found——” —“The back door in question?”—“Just go; look down that passage in front of us; at the end there is a door which leads—where do you think?”—“Into the Passage des Panoramas, does it not?”—“Yes, monsieur, and now you see what I mean.”—I told him I did not think I did.—“Why, you see,” he explained, “when the enemy comes we must rush into that passage, shut the lower door, and make for our post at the windows, where we will do our duty bravely to our last cartridge. But suppose, in the meantime, that those devils, succeed in breaking open the lower door with the butt end of their muskets—and it is not very strong—what shall we do then?”—“Why, of course,” I said, “we must plant ourselves at the top of the staircase and receive them at the point of our bayonets.”—“By no means;” he expostulated.—“But we must; it is our duty.”—“Oh! I fancied we might have gained the door that leads into the passage,” he went on, looking rather shame-faced.—“What, run away!”—“No, not exactly; only find some place of safety!”—“Well, if it comes to that,” I replied, “you may do just as you like; only I warn you that the passage is occupied by a hundred of our men, and that all the outlets are barricaded.”—“No, not all,” he said with conviction, “and that is why I appeal to you. You are a journalist, are you not?”—“Sometimes.”—“Yes, but you are; and you know actors and all those sort of people, and you go behind the scenes, I dare say, and know where the actors dress themselves, and all that.”—I looked at my brave comrade in some surprise, but he continued without noticing me, “And, you know all the ins and outs of the theatre, the corridors, the trapdoors.”—“Suppose I do, what good can that do you?”—“All the good in the world, monsieur; it will be the saving of me. Why we shall only have to find the actors’ entrance of the VariÉtÉs, which is in the passage, then ring, at the bell; the porter knows you, and will admit us. You can guide us both up the staircase and behind the scenes, and we can easily hunt out some hole or corner in which to hide until the fight is over.”—“Then,” said I, feeling rather disgusted with my companion, “we can bravely walk out of the front door on the boulevards, and go and eat a comfortable breakfast, while the others are busy carrying away our dead comrades from the staircase we ought to have helped to defend!”

The poor man looked at me aghast, and then went off. I saw that I had hurt his feelings, and I thought perhaps I had been wrong in making him feel the cowardice of his proposition. I had known him for some months; he lived in the same street as I did, and I remembered that he had a wife and children. Perhaps he was right in wishing to protect his life at any price. I thought it over for a minute or two, and then it went out of my mind altogether.

At four in the morning we had another alarm; in an instant every one was on foot and rushing to the windows. The house to which I was ordered was the very one that had inspired my ingenious friend with his novel plan of evasion. I found him already installed in the room from whence we were to fire into the street.—“You do not know what I have done,” said he, coming up to me.—“No.”—“Well, you know the door which opens on to the passage; you remember it?”—“Of course I do.”—“I found there was a key; so what do you think I did? I double-locked the door, and went and slipped the key down the nearest drain! Ha! ha! The fellow who tries to escape that way will be finely caught!”

I seized him cordially by the hand and shook it many times. He was beaming, and I was pleased also. I could not help feeling that however low France may have fallen, one must never despair of a country in which cowards even can be brave.