"HENRI, Chief of a Legion."]

[Footnote 30: Vexatious measures accumulated:

The pacific M. Glais-Bizoin was arrested in a tobacconist's shop, where he was, doubtless, lighting a reactionary cigar. He fancied at first that there had been a mistake, but he was taken before the Committee, which caused him, however, to be liberated.

M. Maris Proth, a writer in Charivari, which is certainly not a royalist journal, was arrested on the following day, and detained for a longer time.

On the same day a search was made at the house of the publisher Lacroix.]



XXV.

Garibaldi is expected. Gambon has gone to Corsica to meet him. He is to be placed at the head of the National Guard. It is devoutly to be hoped that he will not come.[31]

Firstly, because his presence at this moment would create new dangers; and secondly, because this admirable and honoured man would compromise his glory uselessly in our sorry discords. If I, an obscure citizen, had the honour of being one of those to whom the liberator of Naples lends an ear, I would go to him without hesitation, and, after having bent before him as I would before some ancient hero arisen from his glorious sepulchre, say to him,—"General, you have delivered your country. At the head of a few hundred men you have won battles and taken towns. Your name recalls the name of William Tell. Wherever there were chains to rend and yokes to break, you were seen to hasten. Like the warriors Hugo exalts in his Legende des Siecles, you have been the champion of justice, the knight-errant of liberty. You appear to us victorious in a distant vision, as in the realm of legend. For the glory of our age in which heroes are wanting, it befits you to remain that which you are. Continue afar off, so that you may continue great. It is not that your glory is such that it can only be seen at a distance, and loses when regarded, too nearly. Not so! But you would be hampered amongst us. There is not space enough here for you to draw your sword freely. We are adroit, strange, and complicated. You are simple, and in that lies your greatness. We belong to our time, you have the honour to be an anachronism. You would be useless to your friends, destructive to yourself. What would you, a giant fighting with the sword, do against dwarfs who have cannon? You are courageous, but they are cunning, and would conquer you. For the sake of the nineteenth century you must not be vanquished. Do not come; in your simplicity you would be caught in the spider's web of clever mediocrity, and your grand efforts to tear yourself free would only be laughed at. Great man, you would be treated like a pigmy."

It is probable, however, that if I held such a discourse to General Garibaldi, General Garibaldi would politely show me the door. Other and more powerful counsellors have inspired him with different ideas. Friendship dangerous indeed! How deeply painful is it that no man, however intelligent or great, can clearly distinguish the line, where the mission for which Heaven has endowed him ceases, and, disdaining all celebrity foreign to his true glory, consent to remain such as future ages will admire.[32]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 31: The Citizen Gambon, representative of the Department of the Seine, left Paris charged with a mission to seek Garibaldi, but was arrested at Bonifacio, in the island of Corsica, just as he was embarking for Caprera.

For Memoir, see Appendix 4.]

[Footnote 32: Garibaldi was chosen by the Central Committee for Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard, but he refused in the following terms, pretending not to be aware of the condition of Paris:—

"Caprera, 28th March, 1871.

"CITIZENS,—

"Thanks for the honour you have conferred upon me by my nomination as Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard of Paris, which I love, and whose dangers and glory I should be proud to share.

"I owe you, however, the following explanations:—

"A commandant of the National Guard of Paris, a commander of the Army of Paris, and a directing committee, whatever they may be, are three powers which are not reconcilable with the present situation of France.

"Despotism has the advantage over us, the advantage of the concentration of power, and it is this same centralisation which you should oppose to your enemies.

"Choose an honest citizen, and such are not wanting: Victor Hugo, Louis Blanc, Felix Pyat, Edgar Quinet, or another of the elders of radical democracy, would serve the purpose. The generals Oremer and Billot, who, I see, have your confidence, may be counted in the number.

"Be assured that one honest man should be charged with the supreme command and full powers; such a man would choose other honest men to assist him in the difficult task of saving the country.

"If you should have the good fortune to find a Washington, France will recover from shipwreck, and in a short time will be grander than ever.

"These conditions are not an excuse for escaping the duty of serving republican France. No! I do not despair of fighting by the side of these braves, and I am,

"Yours devotedly,

(Signed), "G. GARIBALDI."]



XXVI.

Monday, the 3rd of April.[33] A fearful day! I have been hurrying this way and that, looking, questioning, reading. It is now ten o'clock in the evening. And what do I know? Nothing certain; nothing except this, which is awful,—they are fighting.

Yes, at the gates of Paris, Frenchmen against Frenchmen, beneath the eyes of the Prussians, who are watching the battle-field like ravens: they are fighting. I have seen ambulance waggons pass full of National Guards. By whom have they been wounded? By Zouaves. Is this thing credible, is it possible? Ah! those guns, cannon, and mitrailleuses, why were they not all claimed by the enemy—all, every one, from soldiers and Parisians alike? But little hindrance would that have proved. It had been resolved—by what monstrous will?—that we should be hurled to the very bottom of the precipice. These Frenchmen, who would kill Frenchmen, would not be checked by lack of arms. If they could not shoot each other, they would strangle each other.



This, indeed, was unlooked for. An insurrection was feared; men thought of the June days; that evening when the battalions devoted to the National Assembly camped in the neighbourhood of the Bank, we imagined, as a horrible possibility, muskets pointed from between the stones of barricades, blood flowing in the streets, men killed, women in tears. But who could have foretold that a new species of civil war was preparing? That Paris, separated from France, would be blockaded by Frenchmen? That it would once more be deprived of communication with the provinces; once more starved perhaps? That there would be, not a few men struggling to the death in one of the quarters of the town, but two armies in presence, each with chiefs, fortifications and cannon? That Paris, in a word, would be besieged anew? How abominable a surprise of fate!

The cannonading has been heard since morning. Ah! that sound, which, during the siege, made our hearts beat with hope,—yes, with hope, for it made us believe in a possible deliverance—how horrible it was this morning. I went towards the Champs Elysees. Paris was deserted. Had it understood at last that its honour, its existence even, were at stake in this revolution, or was it only not up yet? Battalions were marching along the boulevards, with music playing. They were going towards the Place Vendome, and were singing. The cantinieres were carrying guns. Some one told me that men had been at work all night in the neighbourhood of the Hotel de Ville, and that the streets adjoining it were blocked with barricades. But in fact no one knows anything, except that there is fighting in Neuilly, that the "Royalists" have attacked, and that "our brothers are being slaughtered." A few groups are assembled in the Place de la Concorde. I approach, and find them discussing the question of the rents,—yes, of the rents! Ah! it is certain those who are being killed at this moment will not have to pay their landlord. On reaching the Rond Point I can distinctly perceive a compact crowd round the Triumphal Arch, and I meet some tired National Guards who are returning from the battle. They are ragged, dusty, and dreary. "What has happened?"—"We are betrayed!" says one.—"Death to the traitors!" cries another.

No certain news from the field of battle. A runaway, seated outside a cafe amidst a group of eager questioners, recounts that the barricade at the Neuilly bridge has been attacked by sergents de ville dressed as soldiers, and Pontifical Zouaves carrying a white flag.—"A parliamentary flag?" asks some one.—"No! a royalist flag," answered the runaway.—"And the barricade has been taken?"—"We had no cartridges; we had not eaten for twenty-four hours; of course we had to decamp."

Farther on a soldier of the line affirms that the barricade has been taken again. The cannon roars still. Mont Valerien is firing, it is said, on the Courbevoie barracks, where a battalion of Federal guards was stationed yesterday.—"But they were off before daybreak," adds the soldier.

As I continue my road the groups become more numerous. I lift my head and see a shell burst over the Avenue of the Grande Armee, leaving a puff of white smoke hanging for a few seconds like a cloud-flake detached by the wind.

On I go still. The height on which the Arc de Triomphe stands is covered with people; a great many women and children among them. They are mounted on posts, clinging to the projections of the Arch, hanging to the sculpture of the bas-reliefs. One man has put a plank upon the tops of three chairs, and by paying a few sous the gapers can hoist themselves upon it. From this position one can perceive a motionless, attentive crowd reaching down the whole length of the Avenue of the Grande Armee, as far as the Porte Maillot, from which a great cloud of white smoke springs up every moment followed by a violent explosion,—it is the cannon of the ramparts firing on the Rond Point of Courbevoie; and beyond this the Avenue de Neuilly stretching far out in the sunshine, deserted and dusty, a human form crossing it rapidly from time to time; and farthest of all, beyond the Seine, beyond the Avenue de l'Empereur, deserted too, the hill of Courbevoie, where a battery of the Versailles troops is established. But stretch my eyes as I may I cannot distinguish the guns; but a few men, sentinels doubtless, can be made out. They are sergents de ville, says my right-hand neighbour; but he on my left says they are Pontifical Zouaves. They must have good eyes to recognise the uniforms at this distance. The most contradictory rumours circulate as to the barricade on the bridge; it is impossible for one to ascertain whether it has remained in the possession of the soldiers or the Federals. There has been but little fighting, moreover, since I came. A little later, at twelve o'clock, the fusillade ceases entirely. But the battery on the ramparts continues to fire upon Courbevoie, and Mont Valerien still shells Neuilly at intervals. Suddenly a flood of dust, coming from Porte Maillot, thrusts back the thick of the crowd, and as it flies, widening, and whirling more madly as it comes, everyone is seized with terror, and rushes away screaming and gesticulating. A shell has just fallen, it is said, in the Avenue of the Grande Armee. Not a soul remains about the Triumphal Arch. The adjoining streets are filled with people who have run to take shelter there. By little and little, however, the people begin to recover themselves, the flight is stopped in the middle, and, laughing at their momentary panic, they turn back again. A quarter of an hour afterwards the crowd is everywhere as compact as before.

[Illustration: PLACE DE LA CONCORDE AND CHAMPS ELYSEES, FROM THE GARDENS OF THE TUILERIES—FEDERALISTS GOING OUT TO FIGHT THE VERSAILLAIS.

This panorama gives an idea of the theatre of operations of the Second Siege of Paris. The Prussians closed the eastern enceinte, whilst the Federals held the southern forts to the last, with the exception of Issy and Vanves that were abandoned. Point-du-Jour and Porte Maillot were the parts particularly attacked; the former being defended by the Federal gunboats on the Seine. Mont Valerien, it will be seen, commands the whole of the distant plateau. About one mile and a half beyond the Triumphal Arch the river Seine intersects the space from south to north, enclosing the Bois de Boulogne and the villages of Neuilly, Villiers, and Courcelles, being a sort of outer fortification. The walls of Paris follow the same line, falling about half a mile on the other side of the Arch, and parallel runs a line of railway within the fortified wall.

This view exhibits the portion the Prussians were permitted to occupy for two days: all the outlets, except the west, being barricaded and defended.]

This spectacle, however, of combatants and gapers distresses me, and in despair of learning anything I return into the city.

At some distance from the scene of events one gets better information, or, at any rate, a great deal more of it. Imagination has better play when it is farther from the fact. A hundred absurd stories reach me. What appears tolerably certain is, that the Federals have received a check, not very important in itself, the Versailles troops having made but little advance, but at any rate a check which might have some influence on the resolution of the National Guards. They have been told that the army would not fight, that the soldiers of the line would turn the butt-ends of their guns into the air at Neuilly as they had done at Montmartre. But now they begin to believe that the army will fight, and those who cry the loudest that it was the sergents de ville and Charette's Zouaves who led the attack alone, seem as if they said it to give themselves courage and keep up their illusions.

But from which side did the first shot come? On this point everyone has something to say, and no one knows what to believe. Official reports are looked for with the utmost impatience. The walls, generally so communicative, are mute up to this hour. The least improbable of the versions circulated is the following: At break of day some shots are said to have been exchanged between the Federal advanced guard and the patrols of the Versailles troops. None dead or wounded; only powder wasted, happily. A little later, and a few minutes after the arrival of General Vinoy at Mont Valerien, a messenger with a flag of truce, preceded by a trumpeter and accompanied by two sergents de ville (inevitably), is said to have presented himself at the bridge of Courbevoie. The name of the messenger has been given,—Monsieur Pasquier, surgeon-in-chief to the regiment of mounted gendarmes. Two of the National Guards go to meet him; after some words exchanged, one of the Federals blows out Monsieur Pasquier's brains with his revolver, and ten minutes later Mont Valerien opens a formidable fire, which continues as fiercely four hours afterwards.

Meanwhile the drams beat to arms, on all sides. A considerable number of battalions defile along the Boulevard Montmartre; more than twenty thousand men, some say, who pretend to know. On they march, singing and shouting "Vive la Commune! Vive la Republique!" They are answered by a few shouts. These are not the Montmartre and Belleville guards alone; peaceful faces of citizens and merchants may be seen under the military kepis, and many hands are white as no workman's are. They march in good order,—they are calm and resolved; one feels that these men are ready to die for a cause that they believe to be just. I raise my hat as they pass; one must do honour to those who, even if they be guilty, push their devotion so far as to expose themselves to death for their convictions.

But what are these convictions? What is the Commune? The men who sit at the Hotel de Ville have published no programme, yet they kill and are killed for the sake of the Commune. Oh, words! words! What power they have over you, heroic and most simple people!

In the evening out came a proclamation. There was so great a crowd wherever it was posted up that I had not the chance of copying it; but it ran somewhat in these terms:—

"CITIZENS,—This morning the Royalists have ATTACKED.

"Impatient, before our moderation they have ATTACKED.

"Unable to bring French bayonets against us, they have opposed us with the Imperial Guard and Pontifical Zouaves.

"They have bombarded the inoffensive village of Neuilly.

"Charette's chouans, Cathelineau's Vendeens, Trochu's Bretons, Valentin's gendarmes, have rushed upon us.

"There are dead and wounded.

"Against this attack, renewed from the Prussians, Paris should rise to a man.

"Thanks to the support of the National Guard, the victory will be ours!"

Victory! What victory? Oh, the bitter pain! Paris shedding the blood of France, France shedding the blood of Paris! From whatever side the triumph comes, will it not be accursed?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 33: On the 1st of April several shots were fired under the walls of Fort Issy, but it was not until the next day, the 2nd of April, at nine o'clock in the morning, that the action commenced in earnest at Courbevoie, by an attack of the Versailles army. The federals, who thought themselves masters of the place, were stopped by the steady firing of a regiment of gendarmerie and heavy cannonading from Mont Valerien. At first the National Guards retreated, then disputed every foot of ground with much courage. In the neighbourhood the desolation and misery was extreme.

The revolution had now entered a new phase; the military proceedings had begun, and it was about to be proved that, the Communist generals had even less genius than those of the Defense Nationale, although it must be admitted that the latter did not know the extent of the resources they had at their disposal. When we remember the small advantage those generals managed to derive from the heroism of the Parisian population, who, during the second siege showed that they knew how to fight and how to die, it is marvellous that many people have gone so far as to regret that the emeute of the 31st of October was not successful, believing that if the Commune had triumphed at that time, Paris would have been saved. All this seems very doubtful now, and opinions have veered round considerably, for it is not such men as Duval, Cluseret, La Cecilia, Eudes, or Bergeret, who could have protected Paris against the science of the Prussian generals.]



XXVII.

To whom shall we listen? Whom believe? It would take a hundred pages, and more, to relate all the different rumours which have circulated to-day, the 4th of April, the second day of the horrible straggle. Let us hastily note down the most persistent of these assertions; later I will put some order into this pell-mell of news.

All through the night the drums beat to arms in every quarter of the town. Companies assembled rapidly, and directed their way towards the Place Vendome or the Porte Maillot, shouting, "A Versailles!" Since five this morning, General Bergeret has occupied the Rond-Point of Courbevoie. This position has been evacuated by the troops of the Assembly. How was this? Were the Federals not beaten yesterday?

(One thing goes against General Bergeret in the opinion of his troops: he drives to battle in a carriage.)

He has formed his troops into columns. No less than sixty thousand men are under his orders; two batteries of seven guns support the infantry; omnibuses follow, filled with provisions. They march towards the Mont Valerien; after having taken the fort, they will march on Versailles by Rueil and Nanterre.[34] After they have taken the Mont Valerien! there is not a moment's doubt about the success of the enterprise. "We were assured," said a Federal general to me, "that the fort would open its doors at the first sight of us." But they counted without General Cholleton, who commands the fortress. The advance-guard of the Federals is received by a formidable discharge of shot and shells. Panic! Cries of rage! A regular rout to the words, "We are betrayed!"[35] The army of the Commune is divided into two fragments: one—scarcely three battalions strong—flies in the direction of Versailles, the other regains Paris with praiseworthy precipitation. Must the Parisian combatants be accused of cowardice for this flight? No! They were surprised; had never expected such a reception from Mont Valerien; had they been warned, they would have held out better. After all, there was more fright than harm done in the affair; the huge fortress could have annihilated the Communists, and it was satisfied with dispersing them. But what has become of the three battalions that passed Mont Valerien? Bravely they went forward.

In the meantime another movement was being made upon Versailles by Meudon and Clamart. A small number of battalions had marched out during the night, and are massed under cover of the forts of Issy and Vanves. They have managed to establish a battery of a few guns on a wooded eminence, at the foot of the glacis of Fort. Issy, and their pieces are firing upon the batteries of the Versailles troops at Meudon, which are answering them furiously. It is a duel of artillery, as in the time—the good time, alas!—of the Prussians.

Up to this moment the information is tolerably clear; probable even, and one is able to come to some idea of the respective positions of the belligerents. But towards two o'clock in the afternoon all the reports get confused and contradictory.

An estafette, who has come from the Porte Maillot, cried to a group formed on the place of the New Opera-house, "We are victorious! Flourens has entered Versailles at the head of forty thousand men. A hundred deputies have been taken. Thiers is a prisoner."

Elsewhere it is said that in the rout of that morning, at the foot of Mont Valerien, Flourens had disappeared. And where could he have found the forty thousand men to lead them to Versailles?

At the same time a rumour spreads that General Bergeret has been grievously wounded by a shell. "Pure exaggeration!" some one answers. "The General has only had two horses killed under him."

Before him, rather, since he drives to battle. What appears most certain of all is that there is furious fighting going on between Sevres and Meudon. I hear it said that the 118th of the line have turned the butts of their guns into the air, and that the Parisians have taken twelve mitrailleuses from the Versailles troops.

There is fighting, too, at Chatillon. The Federals have won great advantages. Nevertheless an individual who went out that side to investigate, announces that he saw three battalions return with very little air of triumph, and that other battalions, forming the reserve, had refused to march.

A shower of contradictions, in which the news for the most part has no other source than the opinion and desire of the person who brings it. It is by the result alone that we can appreciate what is passed. At one moment I give up trying to get information as a bad job, but I begin questioning again in spite of myself; the desire to know is even stronger than the very strong certainty that I shall be able to learn nothing.

I turn to the Champs Elysees. The cannon is roaring; ambulance waggons descend the Avenue, and stop before the Palais de l'Industrie; over the way Punch is making his audience roar with laughter as usual. Oh! the miserable times! The horrible fratricidal struggle! May those who were its cause be accursed for ever!

While some are killing and others dying, the members of the Commune are rendering decrees, and the walls are white with official proclamations.

"Messieurs Thiers, Favre, Picard, Dufaure, Simon and Pothuan are impeached; their property will be seized and sequestrated until they deliver themselves up to public justice."

This impeachment and sequestration, will it bring back husbands to the widows and fathers to the orphans?

"The Commune of Paris adopts the families of citizens who have fallen or may fall in opposing the criminal aggression of the Royalists, directed against Paris and against the French republic."

Infinitely better than adopting the orphans would be to save the fathers from death. Oh, these absurd decrees! You separate the Church from the State; you suppress the budget of public worship; you confiscate the property of the clergy. A pretty time to think about such acts! What is necessary, what is indispensable, is to restore quiet, to avoid massacres, and to stifle hatred. That you will not decree. No! no! That which is now happening you have desired, and you still desire it; you have profited by the provocations you have received to bring about the most frightful conflict which the history of unfortunate France records; and you will persevere, and in order to revive the fainting courage of those whom you have devoted to inevitable defeat and death, you bring into action all the hypocrisy with which you have charged your enemies!

"Bergeret and Flourens have joined their forces; they are marching on Versailles. Success is certain!"

You cause this announcement to be placarded in the street—false news, is it not? But men can only be led to their ruin by being deceived. You add:

"The fire of the army of Versailles has not occasioned us any appreciable loss."

Ah! As to this let us ask the women who await at the gates of the city the return of your soldiers, and crowd sobbing round the bloody litters!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 34: The combined plan of the three generals of the Commune consisted, like the famous plan of General Boum, in proceeding by three different roads: the first column, under the orders of Bergeret, seconded by Flourens, went by Rueil; the second, commanded by Duval, marched upon Versailles by lower Meudon, Chaville, and Viroflay; covered by the fire of Fort Issy, and the redoubt of Moulineaux; and lastly, the third, with General Eudes at its head, took the Clamart road, protected by the fort of Vanves.]

[Footnote 35: Though no fort covered Bergeret's eight battalions with its fire, yet Bergeret was so sure that the artillerymen of Mont Valerien would do as the line did on the 18th of March, i.e., refuse to fire, that he advanced boldly as far as the bridge of Neuilly, and had made a halt at the Rond-Point des Bergeres, when a heavy cannonading from Mont Valerien separated a part of the column from its main body.]



XXVIII.

Every hour that flies by, becomes more sinister than the last. They fight at Clamart as they fight at Neuilly, at Meudon and at Courbevoie. Everywhere rage the mitrailleuses, the cannon, and the rifle; the victories of the Communalists are lyingly proclaimed. The truth of their pretended triumphs will soon be known; and unhappily victory will be as detestable as defeat.

General Duval has been made prisoner and put to death. "If you had taken me," asked General Vinoy, "would you not have shot me?"—"Without hesitation," replied Duval. And Vinoy gave the word of command, "Fire!"

But this anecdote, though widely spread, is probably false. It is scarcely likely that a Commander-in-Chief of the Versailles troops would have consented to hold such a dialogue with an "insurgent."

Flourens also is killed. Where and how is not yet known with any certainty. Several versions are given. Some speak of a ball in the head, or the neck, or the chest; others spread the report that his skull was cut open by a sword.

Flourens is thought about and talked of by men of the most opposite opinions. This singular man inspires no antipathy even amongst those who might hold him in the greatest detestation. I shall one day try to account for the partiality of opinion in favour of this young and romantic insurgent.

Duval shot, Flourens killed, Bergeret lying in the pangs of death; the enthusiasm of the Federals might well be cooled down. Not in the least! The battalions that march along the boulevards have the same resolute air, as they sing and shout "Vive la Commune!" Are they the dupes of their chiefs to that extent as to believe the pompous proclamations with their hourly announcements of attacks repelled, of redoubts taken, of soldiers of the line made prisoners? It is not probable. And besides, the guards of the respective quarters must see the return of those who have been to the fight, and whose anxious wives are waiting on the steps of the doors; must learn from them that the forward marches have in reality been routs, and that many dead and wounded have been left on the field, when the Commune reports only declare "losses of little importance." Whence comes this ardour that the first rush and defeat cannot check? Is it nourished by the reports, true or false, of the cruelties of the Versaillais which are spread by the hundred? The "murder" of Duval, the "assassination" of Flourens, prisoners shot, vivandieres violated, all these culpable inventions—can they be inventions, or does civil war make such barbarians of us?—are indeed of a nature to excite the enthusiasm of hate, and the men march to a probable defeat with the same air as they would march to certain victory. Ah! whether led astray or not, whether guilty, even, or whatever the motive that impels them, they are brave! And when they pass thus they are grand. Yes! in spite of the rags that serve the greater number of them for uniforms, in spite of the drunken gait of some, as a whole they are superb! And the reason of the coldest partisan of order at any price, struggles in vain against the admiration which these men inspire as they march to their death.

It must be admitted, too, that there is much less disorder in the command than might be expected. The battalions all know whom they are to obey. Some go to the Hotel de Ville, others to the Place Vendome, many to the forts, a few to the advanced posts; marches and counter-marches are managed without confusion, and the combatants are in general well provided with ammunition, and supplied with provisions. Far as one is from esteeming the chiefs of the Federals, one is obliged to admit that there is something remarkable in this rapid organisation of a whole army in the midst of one of the most complete political convulsions. Who, then, directs? Who commands? The members of the Commune, divided as they are in opinion, do not appear capable, on account of their number and lamentable inexperience, of taking the sole lead in military affairs. Is there not some one either amongst them or in the background, who knows how to think, direct, and act? Is it Bergeret? Is it Cluseret? The future perhaps will unravel the mystery. In the meantime, and in spite of the reverses to which the Federals have had to submit during these last days, the whole of Paris unites in unanimous surprise at the extreme regularity with which the administrative system of the war seems to work, the surprise being the greater that, during the siege, the "legitimate" chiefs with much more powerful means, and having disciplined troops at their command, did not succeed in obtaining the same striking results.

But would it not have been better far that that order had never existed? Better a thousand times that the command had been less precise than that those commanded should have been led to a death without glory? For the last few days Neuilly, so joyous in times gone by with its busy shops, its frequented restaurants and princely parks; Neuilly, with the Versailles batteries on one side and the Paris guns on the other, under an incessant rain of shells and mitraille from Mont Valerien; Neuilly, with her bridge taken and re-taken, her barricades abandoned and re-conquered, has been for the last few days like a vast abyss, into which the Federal battalions, seized with mortal giddiness, are precipitated one after another. Each house is a fortress. Yesterday, the gendarmes had advanced as far as the market of Sablonville; this morning they were driven back beyond the church. Upon this church, a child; the son of Monsieur Leullier, planted a red flag amidst a shower of projectiles. "That child will make a true man," said Cluseret, the war delegate. Ah, yes! provided he is not a corpse ere then. Shots are fired from window to window. A house is assaulted; there are encounters, on the stairs; it is a horrible struggle in which no quarter is given, night and day, through all hours. The rage and fury on both sides are terrific. Men that were friends a week ago have but one desire—to assassinate each other. An inhabitant of Neuilly, who succeeded in escaping, related this to me: Two enemies, a soldier of the line and a Federal, had an encounter in the bathing establishment of the Avenue de Neuilly, a little above the Rue des Huissiers. Now pursuing, now flying from each other in their bayonet-fight, they reached the roof of the house, and there, flinging down their arms, they closed in a mad struggle. On the sloping roof, the tiles of which crush beneath them, at a hundred feet from the ground, they struggled without mercy, without respite, until at last the soldier felt his strength give way, and endeavoured to escape from the gripe of his adversary. Then, the Federal—the person from whom I learnt this was at an opposite window and lost not a single one of their movements—the Federal drew a knife from his pocket and prepared himself to strike his half-prostrate antagonist, who, feeling that all hope was lost, threw himself flat on the roof, seized his enemy by the leg, and dragging him with him by a sudden movement, they rolled over and fell on to the pavement below. Neither was killed, but the soldier had his face crimsoned with blood and dust, and the Federal, who had fallen across his adversary, despatched him by plunging his knife in his chest.

Such is this infamous struggle! Such is this savage strife! Will it not cease until there is no more blood to shed? In the meantime, Paris of the boulevards, the elegant and fast-living Paris, lounges, strolls, and smiles. In spite of the numerous departures there are still enough blase dandies and beauties of light locks and lighter reputation to bring the blush to an honest man's cheek. The theatres are open; "La Piece du Pape" is being played. Do you know "The Pope's Money?" It is a suitable piece for diverting the thoughts from the horrors of civil war. A year ago the Pope was supported by French bayonets, but his light coinage would not pass in Paris. Now Papal zouaves are killing the citizens of Paris, and we take light silver and lighter paper. The piece is flimsy enough. It is not its political significance that makes it diverting, but the double-entendre therein. One must laugh a little, you understand. Men are dying out yonder, we might as well laugh a little here. Low whispers in the baignoires, munching of sugared violets in the stage boxes—everything's for the best. Mademoiselle Nenuphar (named so by antithesis) is said to have the most beautiful eyes in the world. I will wager that that handsome man behind her has already compared them to mitraille shot, seeing the ravages they commit. It would be impossible to be more complimentary,—more witty and to the point. Ah! look you, those who are fighting at this moment, who to-day by their cannon and chassepots are exposing Paris to a terrible revenge, guilty as these men are, I hold them higher than those who roar with laughter when the whole city is in despair, who have not even the modesty to hide their joys from our distresses, and who amuse themselves openly with shameless women, while mothers are weeping for their children!

On the boulevards it is worse still; there, vice exhibits itself and triumphs. Is it then true what a young fellow, a poor student and bitter philosopher, said to me just now: "When all Paris is destroyed, when its houses, its palaces, and its monuments thrown down and crushed, strew its accursed soil and form but one vast ruin beneath the sky, then, from out of this shapeless mass will rise as from a huge sepulchre, the phantom of a woman, a skeleton dressed in a brilliant dress, with shoulders bared, and a toquet on its head; and this phantom, running from ruin to ruin, turning its head every now and then to see if some libertine is following her through the waste—this phantom is the leprous soul of Paris!"

When midnight approaches, the cafes are shut. The delegates of the Central Committee at the ex-prefecture have the habit of sending patrols of National Guards to hasten and overlook the closing of all public places. But this precaution, like so many others, is useless. There are secret doors which escape the closest investigations. When the shutters are put up, light filters through the interstices of the boards. Go close up to them, apply your eye to one of those lighted crevices, listen to the cannon roaring, the mitrailleuses horribly spitting, the musketry cracking, and then look into the interior of the closed rooms. People are talking, eating, and smoking; waiters go to and fro. There are women too. The men are gay and silly. Champagne bottles are being uncorked. "Ah! ah! it's the fusillade!" Lovers and mistresses are in common here. This orgie has the most telling effect, I tell you, in the midst of the city loaded with maledictions, a few steps from the battle-field where the bayonets are dealing their death thrusts, and the shells are scattering blood. And later, after the laughter and the songs and the drink, they take an open carriage, if the night is fine, and go to the Champs Elysees, and there mount upon the box by the coachman to try and see the fight—if "those people" knew how to die as well as they know how to laugh it would be better for them.

Other bons viveurs, more discreet, hide themselves on the first floors of some houses and in some of the clubs. But they are betrayed by the sparkle of the chandeliers which pierces the heavy curtains. If you walk along by the walls you will hear the conversation of the gamesters and the joyous clink of the gold pieces.

Ah! the cowardice of the merry ones! Oh, thrice pardonable anger of those who starve!



XXIX.

At one o'clock this morning, the 5th of April, on my return from one of these nightly excursions through Paris, I was following the Rue du Mont Thabor so as to gain the boulevards, when on crossing the Rue Saint-Honore I perceived a small number of National Guards ranged along the pavement. The incident was a common one, and I took no notice of it. In the Rue du Mont Thabor not a person was to be seen; all was in silence and solitude. Suddenly a door opened a few steps in front of me; a man came out and hurried away in the direction opposite to that of the church. This departure looked like a flight. I stopped and lent my attention. Soon two National Guards rushed out by the same door, ran, shouting as they went, after the fugitive, who had had but a short start of them, and overtaking him, without difficulty brought him back between them, while the National Guards that I had seen in the Rue Saint-Honore ran up at the noise. The exclamations and insults of all kinds that were vociferated led me to ascertain that the man they had arrested was the Abbe Deguerry, cure of the Madeleine. He was dragged into the house, the door was shut, and all sank into silence again.

That morning I learned that Monseigneur Darboy, the Archbishop of Paris, was taken at the same hour and in almost similar circumstances.



The arrests of several other ecclesiastics are cited. The cure of St. Severin and the cure of St. Eustache have been made prisoners, it is said; the first in his own house, the second at the moment when he was leaving his church. The cure of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires was to have been arrested also, but warned in time, he was able to place himself in safety.

Monseigneur Darboy, being conducted to the ex-prefecture (why the ex-prefecture? It seems to me it works just as well as when it was purely and simply a prefecture), was cross-examined there by the citizen delegate Rigault. It must be said that Monsieur Rigault had begun to make himself talked about during these last few days. He is evidently a man who has a natural vocation for the employment he has chosen, for he arrests, and arrests, and still arrests. He is young, cold, and cynical. But his cynicism does not exclude him from a certain gaiety, as we shall see. It was the Citizen Rigault, then, who examined the Archbishop of Paris. I am not inordinately curious, but I should very much like to know what the cynical member of the Commune could ask of Monseigneur Darboy. Having committed apparently but one crime, that of being a priest, and having no inclination to disguise it, it is difficult to know what the interrogatory could turn upon. Monsieur Rigault's imagination furnished him no doubt with ample materials for the interview, and he has probably as much vocation for the part of a magistrate as for that of a police officer. But however it may be, the journals of the Commune record this fragment with ill-disguised admiration.

]



"My children"—the white-haired Archbishop of Paris is reported to have said at one moment.

"Citizen," interrupted the Citizen Rigault, who is not yet thirty, "you are not before children, but before magistrates."

That was smart! And I can conceive the enthusiasm with which Monsieur Rigault inspires the members of the Commune. But this excellent citizen did not confine himself to this haughty repartee. I am informed (and I have reason to believe with truth) that he added: "Moreover, that's too old a tale. You have been trying it on these eighteen hundred years."

Now everyone must admit that this is as remarkable for its wit as for its elegance, and it is just what might be expected of the amiable delegate, who, the other day, in a moment of exaggerated clemency, permitted an abbe to visit a prisoner in the Conciergerie, and furnished him with a laisser-passer that ran thus: "Admit the bearer, who styles himself the servant of one of the name of God." Oh! what graceful, charming wit!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 36: Rigault became connected with Rochefort in the year 1869, and with him was engaged on the journal called the Marseillaise, and produced articles which subjected him more than once to fine and imprisonment. In the month of September, 1870, he was appointed by the Government of the National Defence, Commissaire of Police, but having taken part in the insurrection of the 31st of October, he was, on the following day, dismissed from office. Shortly after this he made his appearance as a writer in Blanqui's paper the Patrie en Danger; but, presently, he took a military turn, and got himself elected to the command of a battalion of the National Guard. He seems to have been born an informer or police spy, for we are told when at school, he used to amuse himself by filling up lists of proscriptions, with the names of his fellow-pupils. With such charming natural instincts, it is not at all surprising that he was on the 18th of March, appointed by the Commune Government, Prefect of Police.]



XXX.

I am beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable. This new decree of the Commune seriously endangers the liberty of all those who are so unfortunate as to have incurred the ill-will of their concierge, or whose dealings with his next-door neighbour have not been of a strictly amicable nature. Let us copy the 1st article of this ferocious decree.

"All persons accused of complicity with the Government of Versailles shall be immediately taken and incarcerated."[37]

Pest! they do not mince matters! Why, the first good-for-nothing rascal—to whom, perhaps, I refused to lend five francs seven years ago—may go round to Citizen Rigault and tell him that I am in regular communication with Versailles, whereupon I am immediately incarcerated. For, I beg it may be observed, it is not necessary that the complicity with "the traitors" should be proved. The denunciation is quite sufficient for one to be sent to contemplate the blue sky through the bars of the Conciergerie.[38] Besides, what do the words "complicity with the Government of Versailles" mean? All depends upon the way one looks at those things. I am not sure that I am innocent. I remember distinctly having several times bowed to a pleasant fellow—I say pleasant fellow, hoping that these lines will not fall under the observation of any one at the Prefecture of Police—who at this very moment is quite capable, the rogue, of eating a comfortable dinner at the Hotel des Reservoirs at Versailles in company with one or more of the members of the National Assembly. You can understand now why I am beginning to feel rather uncomfortable. To know a man who knows a deputy, constitutes, I am fully persuaded—otherwise I am unworthy to live under the paternal government of the Commune—a most decided complicity with the men of Versailles. I really think it would be only commonly prudent to steal out of Paris in a coal sack, as a friend of mine did the other day, or in some other agreeable fashion.[39] See what may come of a bow!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 37: DECREE CONCERNING THE SUSPECTED.

"Commune of Paris:

"Considering that the Government of Versailles has wantonly trampled on the rights of humanity, and set at defiance the rights of war; that it has perpetrated horrors such as even the invaders of our soil have shrunk from committing;

"Considering that the representatives of the Commune of Paris have an imperative duty devolving upon them,—that of defending the lives and honour of two millions of inhabitants, who have committed their destinies to their charge; and that it behoves them at once to take measures equal to the gravity of the situation;

"Considering that the politicians and magistrates of the city ought to reconcile the general weal with respect for public liberty,

"Decrees:

"Art. 1. All persons charged with complicity with the Government of Versailles will be immediately brought to justice and incarcerated.

"Art. 2. A 'jury, of accusation' will be summoned within the twenty-four hours to examine the charges brought before it.

"Art. 3. The jury must pass sentence within the forty-eight hours.

"Art. 4. All the accused, convicted by the jury, will be retained as hostages by the People of Paris.

"Art. 6. Every execution of a prisoner of war, or of a member of the regular Government of the Commune of Paris, will be at once followed by the execution of a triple number of hostages, retained by virtue of article 4, who will be chosen by lot.

"Art. 6. All prisoners of war will be summoned before the 'jury of accusation,' who will decide whether they be immediately set at liberty or retained as hostages."]



XXXI.

Flourens is dead: we heard that last night for certain. A National Guard had previously brought back the colonel's horse from Bougival, but it was only a few hours ago that we heard any details. An attempt was made to take him prisoner at Rueil. A gendarme called out to him to surrender, he replied by a pistol shot; another gendarme advanced, and wounded him in the side, a third cleft his skull with a sabre out. Some people do not believe in the pistol shot, and talk of assassination. How many such events are there, the truth of which will never be clearly proved! One thing certain is, that Flourens is dead. His body was recognised at Versailles by some one in the service of Garnier freres. His mother started this morning to fetch the corpse of her son. It is strange that one is so painfully affected by the violent death of this man. He has been mixed up in all the revolutionary attempts of the last few years, and ought to be particularly obnoxious to all peaceful and order-loving citizens; but the truth is, his was a sincerely ardent and enthusiastic spirit. He was a thorough believer in the principles he maintained. Whatever may be the religion he professes, the apostle inspires esteem, and the martyr compassion. This apostle, this martyr, was born to affluence; son of an illustrious savant, he may be almost said to have been born to hereditary distinction. He was still quite young when he threw himself heart and soul into politics. There was fighting in Crete, and so off he went. There he revolted against the revolt itself, got imprisoned, escaped, outwitted the gendarmes, got retaken: his adventures sound like a legend or romance. It is because he was so romantic, that he is so interesting. He returned to France full of generous impulses. He was as prodigal of his money as he had been of his blood. In the bitter cold winters he fed and clothed the poor of Belleville, going from attic to attic with money and consolation. You remember what Victor Hugo says of the sublime Pauline Roland. The spirit of Flourens much resembled hers. The patriot could act the part of a sister of charity. At other times, an enthusiast in search of a social Eldorado, he would put himself at the service of the most forlorn cause; never was anyone so imprudent. He was of a most active and critical disposition: it was impossible for him to remain quiet. When he was not seemingly employed, he was agitating something in the shade. His friendship for Rochefort was great. These two turbulent spirits, one with his pen, the other with his physical activity, remind us each of the other. Both ran to extremes, Rochefort in his literary invectives, Flourens in his hairbreadth adventures. Although they were often allied, these two, they were sometimes opposed. Have you never seen two young artists in a studio performing the old trick, one making a speech, while the other, with his head and body hidden in the folds of a cloak, stretches forth his arms and executes the most extravagant gestures? Rochefort and Flourens performed this farce in politics, the former talking, the latter gesticulating; but on the day of the burial of Victor Noir they went different ways. On that day Rochefort, to do him justice, saved a large multitude of men from terrible danger. Flourens, always the same, wished the body to be carried to Pere Lachaise; on the road there must have been a collision; that was what he desired, but he was defeated. The tongue prevailed, a hundred thousand cries of vengeance filled the air, but they were only cries, and no mischief was done, except to a few graves in the Neuilly cemetery. Flourens awaited a better occasion, but by no means passively. He was a man of barricades; he did not seem to think that paving-stones were made to walk on, he only cared to see them heaped up across a street for the protection of armed patriots. Although he always wore the dress of a gentleman, he was not one of those black-coated individuals who incite the men to rebellion and keep out of the way while the fight is going on; he helped to defend the barricades he had ordered to be thrown up. Wherever there was a chance of being killed, he was sure to be; and in the midst of all this he never lost his placid expression, nor the politeness of a gentleman, nor the look of extreme youth which beamed from his eyes, and must have been on his face even when he fell under the cruel blows of the gendarmes. Now he is dead. He is judged harshly, he is condemned, but he cannot be hated. He was a madman, but he was a hero. The conduct of Flourens at the Hotel de Ville in the night of the 31st October is hardly in keeping with so favourable a view. The French forgive and forget with facility—let that pass.

]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 38: Prison of Detention.]

[Footnote 39: The following is still more naive:—A man takes a return-ticket for the environs, and sometimes finds a guard silly enough to allow him to pass on the supposition that such a ticket was sufficient proof of his intention of returning to Paris.

Others get into the waiting-room without tickets, under the pretext of speaking to some one there.

M. Bergerat, a poet, passed the barrier in a cart-load of charcoal.]

[Footnote 40: Flourens was born in 1838, and was the son of the well-known savant and physiologist of this name. He completed his studies with brilliancy, and succeeded his father as professor of the College de France. His opening lecture on the History of Man made a profound impression on the scientific world. However, he retired from this post in 1864, and turned his undivided attention to the political questions of the day. Deeply compromised by certain pamphlets written by him, he left France for Candia, where he espoused the popular cause against the Turks. On his return to France he was imprisoned for three months for political offences. Rochefort's candidature was hotly supported by him. In 1870 he rose against the Government, with a large force of the Belleville faubouriens. He was prosecuted, and took refuge in London. After the fourth of September he was placed at the head of five battalions of National Guards. He was again imprisoned for having instigated the rising of October, and it was not till the twenty-second of March that he was set at liberty. On the second of April he set out for Versailles at the head of an insurgent troop. He was met midway by a mounted patrol, and in the melee that ensued he was killed.]



XXXII.

In the midst of so many horrible events, which interest the whole mass of the people, ought I to mention an incident which broke but one heart? Yes, I think the sad episode is not without importance, even in so vast a picture. It was a child's funeral. The little wooden coffin, scantily covered with a black pall, was not larger, as Theophile Gautier says, "than a violin case." There were few mourners. A woman, the mother doubtless, in a black stuff dress and white crimped cap, holding by the hand a boy, who had not yet reached the age of sorrowing tears, and behind them a little knot of neighbours and friends. The small procession crept along the wide street in the bright sunlight.

When it reached the church they found the door closed, and yet the money for the mass had been paid the night before, and the hour for the ceremony fixed. One of the women went forward towards the door of the vestry, where she was met by a National Guard, who told her with a superfluity of oaths that she must not go in, that the —— cure, the sacristan, and all the d—— fellows of the church were locked up, and that they would no longer have anything to do with patriots. Then the mother approached and said, "But who will bury my poor child if the cure is in prison?" and then she began to weep bitterly at the thought that there would be no prayers put up for the good of the little spirit, and that no holy water would be sprinkled on its coffin. Yes, members of the Commune, she wept, and she wept longer and more bitterly later at the cemetery, when she saw them lower the body of her child into the grave, without a prayer or a recommendation to God's mercy. You must not scoff at her, you see she was a poor weak woman, with ideas of the narrowest sort; but there are other mothers like her, quite unworthy of course to bear the children of patriots, who do not want their dear ones to be buried like dogs; who cannot understand that to pray is a crime, and to kneel down before God an offence to humanity, and who still are weak enough to wish to see a cross planted on the tombs of those they have loved and lost! Not the cross of the nineteenth century—a red flag![41]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 41: Early in April the Commune forbade divine service in the Pantheon. They out off the arms of the cross, and replaced it by the red flag during a salute of artillery.]



XXXIII.

Communal fraternity is decidedly in the ascendant; it is putting into practice this admirable precept, "Arrest each other." They say M. Delescluze has been sent to the Conciergerie. Yesterday Lullier was arrested, to-day Assy. It was not sufficient to change Executive Committees—if I may be allowed to say so—with no more ceremony than one would change one's boots; the Commune conducts itself, in respect to those members that become obnoxious to it, absolutely as if they were no more than ordinary archbishops.



What! Assy—Assy[42] of Creuzot—who signed before all his comrades the proclamations of the Central Committee, in virtue, not only of his ability, but in obedience to the alphabetical order of the thing—Assy no longer reigns at the Hotel de Ville!—publishes no more decrees, discusses no longer with F. Cournet, nor with G. Tridon. Wherefore this fall after so much glory? It is whispered about that Assy has thought it prudent to put aside a few rolls of bank notes found in the drawers of the late Government. What, is that all? How long have politicians been so scrupulous? Members of the Commune, how very punctilious you have grown. Now if the Citizen Assy were accused of having in 1843 been intimately acquainted with a lady whose son is now valet to M. Thiers' first cousin, or if he had been seen in a church, and it were clearly proved that he was there with any other intention than that of delicately picking the pockets of the faithful, then I could understand your indignation. But the idea of arresting a man because he has appropriated the booty of the traitors, is too absurd; if you go on acting in that way people will think you are growing conscientious!

As to Citizen Lullier,[43] who was one of the first victims of "fraternity," he is imprisoned because he did not succeed in capturing Mont Valerien. I think with horror that if I had been in the place of Citizen Lullier I should most certainly have had to undergo the same punishment, for how in the devil's name I could have managed to transport that impregnable fortress on to the council-table at the Hotel de Ville I have not the least conception. It is as bad as if you were in Switzerland, and asked the first child you met to go and fetch Mont Blanc; of course the child would go and have a game of marbles with his companions, and come back without the smallest trace of Mont Blanc in his arms, thereupon you would whip the youngster within an ace of his life. However, it appears that M. Lullier objected to being whipped, or rather imprisoned, and being as full of cunning as of valour he managed to slip out of his place of confinement, without drum or trumpet. "Dear Rochefort," he writes to the editor of Le Mot d'Ordre, "you know of what infamous machinations I have been the victim." I suppose M. Rochefort does, but I am obliged to confess that I have not the least idea, unless indeed M. Lullier means by "machinations" the order that was given him to bring Mont Valerien in his waistcoat pocket. "Imprisoned without motive," he continues, "by order of the Central Committee, I was thrown ..." (Oh! you should not have thrown M. Lullier) "into the Prefecture of Police," (the ex-Prefecture, if you please), "and put in solitary confinement at the very moment when Paris was in want of men of action and military experience." Oh, fie! men of the Commune, you had at your disposal a man of action—who does not know the noble actions of Citizen Lullier? A man of military experience—who does not know what profound experience M. Lullier has acquired in his numerous campaigns—and yet you put him, or rather throw him, into the Prefecture! This is bad, very bad. "The Prefecture is transformed into a state prison, and the most rigorous discipline is maintained." It appears then that the Communal prison is anything but a fool's paradise. "However, in spite of everything, I and my secretary managed to make our escape calmly ..."—the calm of the high-minded—"from a cell where I was strictly guarded, to pass two court-yards and a dozen or two of soldiers, to have three doors opened for me while the sentinels presented arms as I passed ..." What a wonderful escape: the adventures of Baron Munchausen are nothing to it. What a fine chapter poor old Dumas might have made of it. The door of the cell is passed under the very nose of the jailer, who has doubtless been drugged with some narcotic, of which M. Lullier has learnt the secret during his travels in the East Indies; the twelve guards in the court-yards are seized one after another by the throat, thrown on the ground, bound with cords, and prevented from giving the alarm by twelve gags thrust into their twelve mouths; the three doors are opened by three enormous false keys, the work of a member of the Commune, locksmith by trade, who has remained faithful to the cause of M. Lullier; and last, but not least, the sentinels, plunged in ecstasy at the sight of the glorious fugitive, present arms. What a scene for a melodrama! The most interesting figure, however, in my opinion, is the secretary. I have the greatest respect for that secretary, who never dreamt one instant of abandoning his master, and I can see him, while Lullier is accomplishing his miracles, calmly writing in the midst of the danger, with a firm hand, the faithful account of these immortal adventures. "I have now," continues the ex-prisoner of the ex-Prefecture, "two hundred determined men, who serve me as a guard, and three excellent revolvers, loaded, in my pocket. I had foolishly remained too long without arms and without friends; now I am resolved to blow the brains out of the first man who tries to arrest me!" I heard a bourgeois who had read this exclaim, that he wished to Heaven each member of the Commune would come to arrest him in turn. Oh! blood-thirsty bourgeois! Then Lullier finishes up by declaring that he scorns to hide, but continues to show himself freely and openly on the boulevards. What a proud, what a noble nature! Oh, ye marionettes, ye fantoccini! Yet let me not be unjust; I will try and believe in you once more, in spite of armed requisitions, in spite of arrests, of robberies—for there have been robberies in spite of your decrees—I will try and believe that you have not only taken possession of the Hotel de Ville for the purpose of setting up a Punch and Judy show and playing your sinister farces; I want to believe that you had and still have honourable and avowable intentions; that it is only your natural inexperience joined to the difficulties of the moment which is the cause of your faults and your follies; I want to believe that there are among you, even after the successive dismissal of so many of your members, some honourable men who deplore the evil that has been done, who wish to repair it, and who will try to make us forget the crimes and forfeits of the civil war by the benefits which revolution sometimes brings in its train. Yes, I am naturally full of hope, and will try and believe this; but, honestly, what hope can you have of inspiring confidence in those who are not prejudiced as I am in favour of innovators, when they see you arrest each other in this fashion, and know that you have among you such generals as Bergeret, such honest citizens as Assy, and such escaped lunatics as Lullier?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 42: Assy, who first became publicly known as the leader of the strike at Messrs. Schneider's works at Creuzot, was an engineer. He was born in 1840. He became a member of the International Society, and was selected in 1870 to organise the Creuzot strike. Being threatened with arrest, he went to Paris, but did not remain there long, and on the 21st of March in that year, a few days after his return to Creuzot, the strike of the miners commenced. Assy was, finally, arrested and tried before the Correctional Tribune of Paris as chief and founder of a secret society, but he was acquitted of that charge.

At the siege of Paris, Assy was appointed as an officer in a free guerilla corps of the Isle of France. Subsequently he was a lieutenant in the 192nd battalion of the National Guard. Getting on the Central Committee, he took an active share in the events that occurred. Appointed commander of the 67th battalion on the 17th March, we find him on the morning of the 18th as Governor of the Hotel de Ville, and colonel of the National Guard, organising with the members of the committee the means of a serious resistance—giving orders for the construction of barricades—stopping the transport of munitions and provisions from Paris. Becoming a member of the Commune, he took an active part in carrying into effect the decrees which led, among other things, to the demolition of the Vendome Column and of the house of M. Thiers. He was arrested in April, and was succeeded as Governor of the Hotel de Ville by one Pindy, who retained the office till the army entered Paris. Assy was held prisoner, sur parole, at the Hotel de Ville, till the 19th April, when he was liberated. After this Assy was engaged in superintending the manufacture of munitions of war. He was the sole superintendent of the supply, especially as regards quality. Among the warlike stores manufactured were incendiary shells filled with petroleum, intended to be thrown into Paris during the insurrection. It is certain that these engines of destruction could only have been made at the factory superintended by Assi. He was arrested on the 21st May. Assy was one of the chiefs of the insurrection; he denied signing the decrees for the execution of the hostages, or order for the enrolment of the military in the National Guard. Assy was condemned by the tribunal of Versailles, Sept. 2, to confinement for life in a French fortress—a light penalty for the deeds of this important insurgent.]

[Footnote 43: Memoir, see Appendix 5.]



XXXIV.

The fighting still continues, the cannonading is almost incessant. However, the damage done is but small. To-day, the 7th April, things seem to be in pretty much the same position as they were after Bergeret had been beaten back and Flourens killed. The forts of Vanves and Issy bombard the Versailles batteries, which in their turn vomit shot and shell on Vanves and Issy. Idle spectators, watching from the Trocadero, see long lines of white smoke arise in the distance. Every morning, Citizen Cluseret,[44] the war delegate, announces that an assault of gendarmes has been victoriously repulsed by the garrisons in the forts. It is quite certain that if the Versaillais do attack they are repulsed, as they make no progress whatever; but do they attack, that is the question? I am rather inclined to think that these attacks and repulses are mere inventions. It seems evident to me that the generals of the National Assembly, who are now busy establishing batteries and concentrating their forces, will not make a serious attempt until they are certain of victory. In the meantime they are satisfied to complete the ruin of the forts which were already so much damaged by the Prussians.

Between Courbevoie and the Porte Maillot the fighting is continual. Ground is lost and gained, such and such a house that was just now occupied by the Versaillais is now in the hands of the Federals, and vice versa. Neither side is wholly victorious, but the fighting goes on. What! is there no one to cry out "Enough! Enough blood, enough tears! Enough Frenchmen killed by Frenchmen, Republicans killed by Republicans." Men fall on each side with the same war cry on their lips. Oh! when will all this dreadful misunderstanding cease?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: The biography of this general of the Commune is very imperfect, down to the time when he was elected for the 1st Arrondissement of Paris, and was thereupon appointed Minister of War, or in Communal phraseology, Delegate at the War Department. He seems to have been one of those beings, without country or family, but who are blessed, by way of compensation, with a plurality of names; we do not know whether Cluseret was really his own, or how many aliases he had made use of.

It is said that he was formerly captain in a battalion of Chasseurs d'Afrique, but was dismissed the army upon being convicted of defalcations, in connection with the purchase of horses, and, that soon after his dismissal from the French army, he went to the United States, where he served in the revolutionary war, and attained to the rank of General. Then we have another story, to the effect that having been entrusted with the care of a flock of lambs, the number of the animals decreased so rapidly, that nothing but the existence of a large pack of wolves near at hand, could possibly have accounted for it in an honest way; this affair is said to have occurred at Churchill, Such vague charges as these however deserve but little credit.

After closing his career as a shepherd, he became a defender of the Pope's flock, enlisting in the brigade against which Garibaldi took the field. The next we hear of him is that he joined the Fenians, and made an attempt to get possession of Chester Castle, but that he fell under suspicion of being a traitor, and was glad to escape to France, where, report says, he found refuge with a religious community.

"When the devil was sick, The devil a monk would be; But when the devil was well, The devil a monk was he!"

]



XXXV.

Thirty men carrying muffled drums, thirty more with trumpets draped in crape, head a long procession; every now and then the drums roll dismally, and the trumpets give a long sad wail.

Numerous detachments of all the battalions come next, marching slowly, their arms reversed. A small bunch of red immortelles is on every breast. Has the choice of the colour a political signification, or is it a symbol of a bloody death?

Next appears an immense funeral car draped with black, and drawn by four black horses; the gigantic pall is of velvet, with silver stars. At the corners float four great trophies of red flags.

Then another car of the same sort appears, another, and again another; in each of them there are thirty-two corpses. Behind the cars march the members of the Commune bare-headed, and wearing red scarfs. Alas! always that sanguinary colour! Last of all, between a double row of National Guards, follows a vast multitude of men, women, and children, all sorrowful and dejected, many in tears.

The procession proceeds along the boulevards; it started from the Beaujon hospital, and is going to the Pere Lachaise: as it passes all heads are bared. One man alone up at a window remains covered; the crowd hiss him. Shame on him who will not bow before those who died for a cause, whether it may be a worthy one or not! On looking on those corpses, do not remember the evil they caused when they were alive. They are dead now, and have become sacred. But remember, oh! remember, that it is to the crimes of a few that are due the deaths of so many, and let us help to hasten the hour when the criminals, whoever they be, and to whatever party they belong; will feel the weight of the inexorable Nemesis of human destiny.



XXXVI.

We are to have no more letters! As in the time of the siege, if you desire to obtain news of your mother or your wife, you have no other alternative than to consult a somnambulist or a fortune-teller. This is not at all a complicated operation; of course you possess a ribbon or a look of hair, something appertaining to the absent person. This suffices to keep you informed, hour by hour, of what she says, does, and thinks. Perhaps you would prefer the ordinary course of things, and that you would rather receive a letter than consult a charlatan. But if so, I would advise you not to say so. They would accuse you of being, what you are doubtless, a reactionist, and you might get into trouble.

Yesterday a young man was walking in the Champs Elysees, a Guard National stalked up to him and asked him for a light for his cigar.—"I am really very sorry," said he, "but my cigar has gone out."—"Oh! your cigar is out, is it? Oh! so you blush to render a service to a patriot! Reactionist that you are!" Thereupon a torrent of invectives was poured on the poor young man, who was quickly surrounded by a crowd of eager faces: One charming young person exclaimed, "Why, he is a disguised sergent-de-ville!"—"Yes, yes; he is a gendarme!" is echoed on all sides.—"I think he looks like Ernest Picard," says one.—"Throw him into the Seine," says another.—"To the Seine, to the Seine, the spy!" and the unfortunate victim is pushed, jostled, and hurried off. A dense crowd of National Guards, women, and children had by this time collected, all crying out at the top of their voices, and without any idea of what was the matter, "Shoot him! throw him the water! hang him!" Superstitious individuals leaned towards hanging for the sake of the cords. As to the original cause of the commotion, no one seemed to remember anything about it. I overheard one man say,—"It appears that they arrested him just as he was setting fire to the ambulance at the Palais de l'Industrie!" As to what became of the young man I do not know; I trust he was neither hanged, shot, nor drowned. At any rate, let it be a lesson to others not to get embroiled in dangerous adventures of that kind; and whatever your anxiety may be concerning your family or affairs, you would do well to hide it carefully under a smiling exterior. Suppose you meet one of your friends, who says to you, "My dear fellow, how anxious you must be?" You must answer, "Anxious! oh, not at all. On the contrary, I never felt more free of care in my life."—"Oh! I thought your aunt was ill, and as you do not receive any letters ..."—"Not receive any letters!" you continue in the same strain, "who told you that? Not receive any letters! why, I have more than I want! what an idea!"—"Then you must be strangely favoured," says your mystified companion; "for since Citizen Theiz[45] has taken possession of the Post-office, the communications are stopped."—"Don't believe it. It is a rumour set on float by the reactionists. Why, those terrible reactionists go so far as to pretend that the Commune has imprisoned the priests, arrested journalists, and stopped the newspapers!"—"Well, you may say what you please, but a proclamation of Citizen Theiz announces that communication with the departments will not be re-established for some days."—"Nothing but modesty on his part; he has only to show himself at the Post-office, and the service, which has been put out of order by those wretched reactionists, will be immediately reorganised."—"So I am to understand that you have news every day of your aunt."—"Of course."—"Well, I am delighted to hear it; for one of my friends, who arrived from Marseilles this morning, told me that your aunt was dead."—"Dead, good heavens! what do you mean? Now I think of it, I did not get a letter this morning."—"There you see!"

You must not, however, allow your sorrow to carry you away, at the risk of your personal safety, but answer readily. "I see it all, for a wonder I did not get a letter this morning; Citizen Theiz is a kind-hearted man, and did not want to make me unhappy."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 45: A working chaser, and one of the most active and influential members of the International Society. He was among the accused who were tried in July, 1870, and was condemned to two years' imprisonment. On the formation of the Central Committee, he was appointed Vice-President. It was Theiz who saved the General Post Office, Rue J.J. Rousseau, from the total destruction decreed by other members of the Commune. His fate is not well known. Director of the General Post-office in the Rue J.J. Rousseau, he is said to have saved that important establishment, doomed to destruction by the Commune. Theiz escaped from Paris to London on the 29th of July; he took an active part in the struggle to the last, and was close to Vermorel when wounded at the barricade of the Chateau d'Eau.]



XXXVII.

The queen of the age is the Press. Lately dethroned and somewhat shorn of her majesty, but still a queen. It is in vain that the press has sometimes degraded itself in the eyes of honest men by stooping to applaud and approve of crimes and excesses, that journalists have done what they can to lower it; still the august offspring of the human mind, the press, has really lost neither its power nor its fascination. Misunderstood, misapplied, it may have done some harm, but no one can question the signal service which it has been able to render, or the nobility of its mission. If it has sometimes been the organ of false prophets, its voice has also been often raised to instruct and encourage.

When last night you went secretly, in a manner worthy of the act, to seize on the printing presses of the Journal des Debats, the Paris Journal, and the Constitutionnel, were you aware of what you were doing? You imagined, perhaps, this act would have no other result than that of suppressing violently a private concern—which is one kind of robbery—and of reducing to a state of beggary—which is a crime—the numerous individuals, journalists, printers, compositors, and others who are employed on the journal, and who live by its means. You have done worse than this. You have stopped, as far as it was in your power, the current of human progress. You have suppressed man's noblest. right—the right of expressing his opinions to the world; you are no better than the pickpocket who appropriates your handkerchief. You have taken our freedom of thought by the throat, and said, "It is in my way, I will strangle it." Wherefore have you acted thus? To shut the mouths of those who contradict you, is to admit that you are not so very sure of being in the right. To suppress the journals is to confess your fear of them; to avoid the light is to excite our suspicion concerning the deeds you are perpetrating in the darkness. We shut our windows when we do not desire to be seen. Little confidence is inspired by closed doors. Your councils at the Hotel de Ville are secret as the proceedings of certain legal cases, the details of which might be hurtful to public morality. Again I say, wherefore this mystery? What strange projects have you on foot? Do you discuss among you, propositions of a nature which your modesty declines to make known to the world? This fear of publicity, of opposition, you have proved afresh, by the nocturnal visits of your National Guards to the printing offices, wherein they forced an entrance like housebreakers. Shall we be reduced to judge of your acts, and of the bloody incidents of the civil war, only by your own asseverations and those of your accomplices? You must be very determined to act guiltily and to be obliged to tell lies, as you take so much trouble to get rid of those, who might pass sentence on you, and who might convict you of falsehood. Therefore you have not only committed a crime in so doing, but made a great mistake as well. No one can meddle with the liberty of the press with impunity. The persecution of the press always brings with it its own punishment. Look back to the many years of the Imperial Government, to the few months of the Government of the 4th of September; of all the crimes perpetrated by the former, of all the errors committed by the latter, those crimes and errors which most particularly hastened the end were those that were levelled against the freedom of the press. The most valable excuse in favour of the revolt of the 18th of March was certainly the suppression of several journals by General Vinoy, with the consent of M. Thiers. How can you be so rash as to make the very same mistakes which have been the destruction of former governments, and also so unmindful of your own honour as to commit the very crime which reduces you to the same level as your enemies?

Ah I truly those who were ready to judge you with patience and impartiality, those who at first were perhaps, on the whole, favourable to you, because it seemed to them that you represented some of the legitimate aspirations of Paris, even those, seeing you act like thoughtless tyrants, will feel it quite impossible to blind themselves any longer to your faults; those who having wished to esteem you for the sake of liberty, will for the sake of liberty, be obliged to despise you!



XXXVIII.

It cannot be true. I will not believe it. It cannot be possible that Paris is to be again bombarded: and by whom? By Frenchmen! In spite of the danger I was told there was to be apprehended near Neuilly, I wished to see with my own eyes what was going on. So this morning, the 8th April, I went to the Champs Elysees.

Until I reached the Rond Point there was nothing unusual, only perhaps fewer people to be seen about. The omnibus does not go any farther than the corner of the Avenue Marigny. An Englishwoman, whom the conductor had just helped down, came up to me and asked me the way; she wanted to go to the Rue Galilee, but did not like to walk up the wide avenue. I pointed out to her a side-street, and continued my way. A little higher up a line of National Guards, standing about ten feet distant from each other, had orders to stop passengers from going any farther. "You can't pass."—"But ...," and I stopped to think of some plausible motive to justify my curiosity. However, I was saved the trouble. Although I had only uttered a hesitating "but," the sentinel seemed to consider that sufficient, and replied, "Oh, very well, you can pass."

The avenue seemed more and more deserted as I advanced. The shutters of all the houses were closed. Here and there a passenger slipped along close to the walls of the houses, ready to take refuge within the street-doors, which had been left open by order, directly they heard the whizzing of a shell. In front of the shop of a carriage-builder, securely closed, were piled heaps of rifles; most of the National Guards were stretched on the pavement fast asleep, while some few were walking up and down smoking their pipes, and others playing at the plebeian game of "bouchon."[46] I was told that a shell had burst a quarter of an hour before at the corner of the Rue de Morny. A captain was seated there on the ground beside his wife, who had just brought him his breakfast; the poor fellow was literally cut in two, and the woman had been carried away to a neighbouring chemist's shop dangerously wounded. I was told she was still there, so I turned my steps in that direction. A small group of people were assembled before the door. I managed to get near, but saw nothing, as the poor thing had been carried into the surgery. They told me that she had been wounded in the neck by a bit of the shell, and that she was now under the care of one of the surgeons of the Press Ambulance. I then continued my walk up the avenue. The cannonading, which had seemed to cease for some little time, now began again with greater intensity than ever. Clouds of white smoke arose in the direction of the Porte Maillot, while bombs from Mont Valerien burst over the Arc de Triomphe. On the right and left of me were companies of Federals. A little further on a battalion, fully equipped, with blankets and saucepans strapped to their knapsacks, and loaves of bread stuck aloft on their bayonets, moved in the direction of Porte Maillot. By the side of the captain in command of the first company marched a woman in a strange costume, the skirt of a vivandiere and the jacket of a National Guard, a Phrygian cap on her head, a chassepot in her hand, and a revolver stuck in her belt. From the distance at which I was standing she looked both young and pretty. I asked some Federals who she was; one told me she was the wife of Citizen Eudes,[47] a member of the Commune, and another that she was a newspaper seller in the Avenue des Ternes, whose child had been killed in the Rue des Acacias the night before by a fragment of a shell, and that she had sworn to revenge him. It appeared the battalion was on its way to support the combatants at Neuilly, who were in want of help. From what I hear the gendarmes and sergents de ville had fought their way as far as the Rue des Huissiers. Now I had no doubt the Versailles generals had made use of the gendarmes and sergents de ville, who were most of them old and tried soldiers, but if in very truth they were wherever the imagination of the Federals persisted in placing them, they must either have been as numerous as the grains of sand on the sea-shore, or else their leaders must have found out a way of making them serve in several places at once. Having followed the battalion, I found myself a few yards in front of the Arc de Triomphe. Suddenly a hissing, whizzing sound is heard in the distance, and rapidly approaches us; it sounds very much like the noise of a sky-rocket. "A shell!" cried the sergeant, and the whole battalion to a man, threw itself on the ground with a load jingling of saucepans and bayonets. Indeed there was some danger. The terrible projectile lowered as it approached, and then fell with a terrific noise a little way from us, in front of the last house on the left-hand side of the avenue. I had never seen a shell burst so near me before; a good idea of what it is like may be had from those sinister looking paintings, that one sees sometimes suspended round the necks of certain blind beggars, supposed to represent an explosion in a mine. I think no one was hurt, and the mischief done seemed to consist in a Wide hole in the asphalte and a door reduced to splinters. The National Guards got up from the ground, and several of them proceeded to pick up fragments of the shell. They had, however, not gone many yards when another cry of alarm was given, and again we heard the ominous Whizzing sound; in an instant we were all on our faces. The second shell burst, but we did not see it; we only saw at the top of the house that had already been struck, a window open suddenly and broken panes fall to the ground. The shell had most likely gone through the roof and burst in the attic. Was there anyone in those upper stories? However, we were on our legs again and had doubled the Arc de Triomphe. I had succeeded in ingratiating myself with the men of the rear-guard, and I hoped to be able to go as far with them as I pleased. Strange enough, and I confess it with naif delight, I did not feel at all afraid. Although half an inch difference in the inclination of the cannon might have cost me my life, still I felt inclined to proceed on my way. I begin to think that it is not difficult to be brave when one is not naturally a coward! Beneath the great arch were assembled a hundred or so of persons who seemed to consider themselves in safety, and who from time to time ventured a few steps forward, for the purpose of examining the damage done to Etex's sculptured group by three successive shells. But in the Avenue de la Grande Armee only three Federals were to be seen, and I think I was the only man in plain clothes they had allowed to go so far. I could distinctly perceive a small barricade erected in front of the Porte Maillot on this side of the ramparts. The bastion to the right was hard at work cannonading the heights of Courbevoie; great columns of smoke, succeeded by terrific explosions, testified to the zeal of the Communist artillerymen. Beyond the ramparts the Avenue de Neuilly extended, dusty and deserted. Unfortunately the sun blinded me, and I could not distinguish well what was going on in the distance. By this time the sound of musketry was heard distinctly. I was told they were fighting principally at Saint James and in the park of Neuilly. I tried to pass out of the gates with the battalion, but an officer caught sight of me, and in no measured tones ordered me back. I ought not to complain, however, he rendered me good service; for although the fire of the Versaillais had somewhat diminished, I do not think the place could have been much longer tenable, to judge from the quantities of bits of shell that strewed the road; from the numerous litters that were being borne away with their bloody burthens; from the railway-station in ruins, and the condition of the neighbouring houses, which had nearly all of them great black holes in their fronts. The Federals did not seem at all impressed by their critical position; sounds of laughter reached me from the interior of a casemate, from the chimney of which smoke was arising, and guards running hither and thither were whistling merrily the Chant du Depart, with a look of complete satisfaction.