August 9, 1870.-In six days the Empire has lost three battles. Douai, Frossart, MacMahon have allowed themselves to be isolated, surprised, crashed. Alsace is lost, the Moselle laid bare. The dumbfoundered Ministry has convoked the Chamber. Ollivier, in dread of a demonstration, denounces if beforehand as "Prussian." But since eleven in the morning an immense agitated crowd occupies the Place de la Concorde, the quays, and surrounds the Corps Législatif. Paris is waiting for the mot d'ordre of the deputies of the Left. Since the announcement of the defeats they have become the only moral authority. Bourgeoisie, workingmen, all rally round them. The workshops have turned their army into the streets, and at the head of the different groups one sees men of tried energy. The Empire totters-it has now only to fall. The troops drawn up before the Corps Législatif are greatly excited, ready to turn tail in spite of the decorated and grumbling Marshal Baraguay d'Hilliers. The people cry, "To the frontier." Officers answer aloud, "Our place is not here."