the Prussian lines. They will not let any one through, I assure you, not even an Englishman. You will be shot, monsieur."

"I cannot tell you how I can get out; but a friend says he will manage it, and, as he is a very clever fellow, I am too glad to believe him."

"Perhaps it may be by a balloon; but there will not be any balloon going for three days."

"Well, I must be off. So please take care of my portmanteau, and I trust you will be spared in this terrible siege."

"Ah, monsieur, c'est vraiment terrible," said mine host.

I went off, bidding good-bye, with a light purse,—hardly enough left for my journey to England.

I hurried on to 17, Rue Soubise, in Montmartre, where I knew Posela lived. In answer to the concierge, I was directed to the fourth étage, where I knocked at a humble-looking door just as the clocks were striking eight.

Entrez, said Posela's soft, sweet voice.

I opened the door and entered. It was a quiet, unpretending little room, but with a fine view over the city, most of the lights of which were clearly visible from the window. There was hardly any furniture, and what there was