It was my intention to dwell in the Hotel Clericy until that house could be made habitable for the ladies.

The _concierge_, I found, had been killed in one of the sorties, and his wife had, with the quick foresight of her countrywomen, secured the safety of the house by letting a certain portion of it in apartments to the officers of the National Guard as soon as the Commune was declared.
These gentlemen (one arrogant captain, I was informed, sold cat's meat in times of peace) had lived with a fine military freedom, and left marks of their boots on all the satin chairs.

They had made a practice of throwing cigar ends and matches on the carpets, had stabbed a few pictures and bespattered the walls with wine, but a keen regard for their own comfort had prevented further wanton damage, and all could be repaired within a few days.
The woman made me some coffee, and while I was drinking it brought me a telegram.
"Sander wires that he has run Miste to earth in Nice.

Wait for me.

I follow by day mail." The message was from Alphonse Giraud.
I laboured all day in Madame's interests, and re-engaged some of the servants who had been scattered by the war and Commune, and a fear, perhaps, of acknowledging any sympathy for the nobility.
In the evening I met Alphonse Giraud on his arrival at the Gare du Nord, and found him in fine feather, carrying a stick of British oak, which he had bought, he told me, for Miste's back.
"It will not be a matter of hitting each other with walking sticks," I answered.
We drove across to the Lyons station, and took the night mail to Marseilles.