A strange air of gloom had been apparent for some time in the Temple district, on the banks of the Ourcq canal, around the Rue Charlot, and even on the Place de la Bastille, among the inhabitants of those areas, young and old—splendid fellows, and normally so cheerful.

No more games of quoits, no more pipe-smoking. Cigar butts lay on the asphalt with not one cigar-lover bothering to pick them up. No midnight customers came to buy from the muffin seller—her wares were getting stale, her big knife rusting and her oven going out. No urchins or wolf-whistlers went in pursuit of their pretty, provocative prey. No more love, so even less gaiety. The flower-sellers were ignored.

The worthies of the Rue St.-Louis met to consult with those of the Temple district and the St.-Antoine quarter, and decided as a matter of urgency to draw up a detailed official report of the progress of this malady. They sent it by express courier to the Commissioner of Police, who, as you can imagine, could not fail to be shaken to the core by the news. The mayors whom he hastened to inform of it were even more shaken. I must admit the bad news was imparted to them in a somewhat precipitate fashion. You have to manage mayors’ feelings carefully.

But the mayors of Paris arrondissements have always felt a real affection for these unfortunate children of the Temple district, so they got over their alarm and hurried to meet in council. The session had scarcely begun when more couriers rushed in, with an immeasurably greater air of consternation than the first, reporting demonstrations by sizeable numbers of people at various points in the capital, characterised by profound gloom and fathomless despondency.

These demonstrations, which were not causing trouble of any kind, were headed by mere youngsters—weedy, pale, skinny lads wearing peaked caps. One had positioned itself on the Boulevard du Temple, opposite the house at number 35, where two popular stars of the Théâtre-Lyrique live, Monsieur and Mme.