Unfortunate Lamarque ! how much blood did this funeral cost ! And those were not forced or bribed gladiators, who massacred one another to exalt the idle display of mourning by combats. It was a blooming and inspired youth which sacrificed its blood for the holiest feelings, for the most generous dream of its soul. It was the best blood of France which ran in the Rue Saint-Martin, and I do not believe that there was better fighting at Thermopylae than at the mouth of the Alley of Saint-Méry and Aubry-des- Bouchers, where at the last a handful of some sixty Republicans fought against sixty thousand troops of the line and National Guards, and twice beat them back ! The old soldiers of Napoleon, who understand fighting as well as we do — perhaps — Christian dogmatics, mediation of extremes, or acting (Kunstleistungen einer Mimin), declared that the fight in the Rue Saint-Martin was one of the most heroic events of modern history. The Republicans did marvels of bravery, and the few who remained alive in no wise asked for mercy. All the researches which my occupation exacted, and which were conscientiously executed, confirm this. They were for the greater part bayonetted by the National Guard. Some Republicans, seeing that all resistance was useless, rushed with bared breasts before the enemy, offering themselves to be shot. When the corner-house of the Rue Saint-Méry was taken, a pupil of the Ecole d’Alfort climbed with a flag on the roof, cried Vive la Republique! and fell down drilled through with bullets. To a house, of which the first storey was held by Republicans, there came the soldiers, who pre- vented retreat by breaking away the stairs, and as the insurgents would not fall alive into the hands of their enemies, they all committed suicide, so that all which was taken was a room full of corpses. This was related to me in the Church of Saint- Méry, and I was obliged to lean against the image of Saint Sebastian to prevent my falling to the ground from deep inward emotion, and I wept like a child. All the tales of heroes over which I, as a boy, had already wept so much, came into my memory, but I especially thought of Cleomenes, King of Sparta, and his twelve companions, who ran through the streets of Alexandria calling on the people to fight for their liberty, but finding none to respond, slew themselves to escape the tyrant’s followers. The last of them was the beautiful Antaos, who first bent over his friend the dead Cleomenes, kissed his dear lips, then fell upon his sword.