FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 59:

On leaving the gulf of Otranto There were thirty of us there, But on arriving at Cadiz There were no more than ten.

]



LIV.

And what has become of the Bourse? What are the brokers and jobbers saying and doing now? I ask myself this question for the first time, as in ordinary circumstances, the Bourse is of all sublunary things that which occupies me the least. I am one of those excessively stupid people, who have never yet been able to understand how all those black-coated individuals can occupy three mortal hours of every day, in coming and going beneath the colonnade of the "temple of Plutus." I know perfectly well that stockbrokers and jobbers exist; but if I were asked what these stockbrokers and jobbers do, I should be incapable of answering a single word. We have all our special ignorances. I have heard, it is true, of the Corbeille,[60] but I ingeniously imagined, in my simple ignorance, that this famous basket was made in wicker work, and crammed with sweet-scented leaves and flowers, which the gentlemen of the Bourse, with the true gallantry of their nation, made up into emblematical bouquets to offer to their lady friends. I was shown, however, how much I was deceived by a friend who enlightened me, more or less, as to what is really done in the Bourse in usual times, and what they are doing there now.

I must begin by acknowledging that in using the worn metaphor of the "temple of Plutus" just now, I knew little of what I was talking about.

The Bourse is not a temple; if it were it would necessarily be a church or something like one, and consequently would have been closed long ago by our most gracious sovereign, the Commune of Paris.

The Bourse, then, is open; but what is the good of that? you will say, for all those who haunt it now, could get in just as well through closed doors and opposing railings; spectres and other supernatural beings never find any difficulty in insinuating themselves through keyholes and slipping between bars. 'Poor phantoms! Thanks to the weakness of our Government, which has neglected to put seals on the portals of the Bourse, they are under the obligation of going in and coming out like the most ordinary individuals; and a Parisian, who has not learned, by a long intimacy with Hoffmann and Edgar Poe, to distinguish the living from the dead, might take these ghosts of the money-market for simple boursiers. Thank heaven! I am not a man to allow myself to be deceived by specious appearances on such a subject, and I saw at once with whom I had to do.

On the grand staircase there were four or five of them, spectres lean as vampires who have not sucked blood for three months; they were walking in silence, with the creeping, furtive step peculiar to apparitions who glide among the yew-trees in church-yards. From time to time one of them pulled a ghost of a notebook from his ghost of a waistcoat-pocket, and wrote appearances of notes with the shadow of a pencil. Others gathered together in groups, and one could distinctly hear the rattling of bones beneath their shadowy overcoats. They spoke in that peculiar voice which is only understood by the confreres of the magi Eliphas Levy, and they recall to each other's mind the quotations of former days, Austrian funds triumphant, Government stock at 70 (quantum mutata ab illa), bonds of the city of Paris 1860-1869, and the fugitive apotheosis of the Suez shares. They said with sighs: "You remember the premiums? In former times there were reports made, in former times there were settling days at the end of the month, and huge pocket-book's were so well filled, that they nearly burst; but now, we wander amidst the ruins of our defunct splendour, as the shade of Diomedes wandered amid the ruins of his house at Pompeii. We are of those who were; the imaginary quotations of shares that have disappeared, are like vain epitaphs on tombs, and we, despairing ghosts, we should die a second time of grief, if we were not allowed to appear to each other in this deserted palace, here to brood over our past financial glories!" Thus spoke the phantoms of the money market, and then added: "Oh! Commune, Commune, give us back our settling days?" From time to time a phantom, which still retains its haughty air, and in which we recognise a defunct of distinction, passes near them. In the days of Napoleon the Third and the Prussians this was a stockbroker; it passed along with a mass of documents under its arm,—as the father of Hamlet, rising from the grave, still wore his helmet and his sword. It enters the building, goes towards the Corbeille, shouts out once or twice, is answered only by an echo in the solitude, and then returns, saluted on his passage by his fellow-ghost. And to think that a little bombardment, followed by a successful attack, seven or eight houses set on fire by the Versailles shells, seven or eight hundred Federals shot, a few women blown to pieces, and a few children killed, would suffice to restore these desolate spectres to life and joy. But, alas! hope for them is deferred; the last circular of Monsieur Thiers announces that the great military operations will not commence for several days. They must wait still longer yet. The people who cross the Place de la Bourse draw aside with a sort of religious terror from the necropolis where sleep the three per cents and the shares of the Credit Foncier; and if the churches were not closed, more than one charitable soul would perhaps burn a candle to lay the unquiet spirits of these despairing jobbers.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 60: A circular space in the great hall of the Bourse, enclosed with a railing, and in which the stockbrokers stand to take bids. It is nicknamed the basket (corbeille).]



LV.

The game is played, the Commune is au complet. In the first arrondissement 21260 electors, are inscribed, and there were 9 voters! Monsieur Vesinier had 2 votes, and Monsieur Vesinier was elected. Monsieur Lacord—more clever still—has no votes at all, and, triumphing by the unanimity of his electors, Monsieur Lacord will preside over the Commune of Paris in future. A very logical arrangement. It must be evident to all serious minds that the legislators of the Hotel de Ville have promulgated in petto a law which they did not think it necessary to make known, but which exists nevertheless, and most be couched somewhat in the following terms:—"Clause 1st. The elections will not be considered valid, if the number of voters exceed a thousandth part of the electors entered.—Clause 2nd. Every candidate who has less than fifteen votes will be elected; if he has sixteen his election will be a matter of discussion." The poll is just like the game called, "He who loses gains, and he who gains loses!" and the probable advantages of such an arrangement are seen at once. Now let us do a bit of Communal reasoning. By whom was France led within an inch of destruction? By Napoleon the Third. How many votes did Napoleon the Third obtain? Seven millions and more. By whom was Paris delivered into the hands of the Prussians? By the dictators of the 4th September. How many votes did the dictators of the 4th September get for themselves in the city of Paris? More than three hundred thousand. Ergo, the candidates who obtain the greatest number of votes are swindlers and fools. The Commune of Paris cannot allow such abuses to exist; the Commune maintains universal suffrage—the grand basis of republican institutions—but turns it topsy-turvy. Michon has only had half a vote,—then Michon is our master!

Ah! you do not only make us tremble and weep, you make us laugh too. What is this miserable parody of universal suffrage? What is this farce of the will of the people being represented by a half a dozen electors? The unknown individual, who owes his triumph to the kindness of his concierge and his water-carrier, becomes a member of the Commune. I shall be governed by Vesinier, with Briosne and Viard as supporters. Do you not see that the few men, with any sense left, who still support you, have refused to present themselves as candidates, and that even amongst those who were mad enough to declare themselves eligible, there are some who dispute the validity of the elections? No; you see nothing of all this, or rather it suits you to be blind. What are right and justice to you? Let us reign, let us govern, let us decree, let us triumph. All is contained in that. Rogeard pleases us, so we'll have Rogeard. If the people won't have Rogeard, so much the worse for the people. Beautiful! admirable! But why don't you speak out your opinion frankly? There were some honest brigands (par pari refertur) in the Roman States who were perhaps no better than you are, but at least they made no pretension of being otherwise than lawless, and followed their calling of brigands without hypocrisy. When, by the course of various adventures, the band got diminished in numbers, they stuck no handbills on the walls to invite people to elect new brigands to fill up the vacant places; they simply chose among the vagabonds and such like individuals those, who seemed to them, the most capable of dealing a blow with a stiletto or stripping a traveller of his valuables, and the band, thus properly reinforced, went about its usual occupations. The devil! Messieurs, one must say what is what, and call things by their names. Let us call a cat a cat, and Pilotel a thief. The time of illusions is past; you need not be so careful to keep your masks on; we have seen your faces. We have had the carnival of the Commune, and now Ash-Wednesday is come. You disguised yourselves cunningly, Messieurs; you routed out from the old cupboards and corners of history the cast-off revolutionary rags of the men of '98; and, sticking some ornaments of the present fashion upon them,—waistcoats a la Commune and hats a la Federation,—you dressed yourselves up in them and then struck attitudes. People perceived, it is true, that the clothes that were made for giants, were too wide for you pigmies; they hung round your figures like collapsed balloons; but you, cunning that you were, you said, "We have been wasted by persecution." And when, at the very beginning, some stains of blood were seen upon your old disguises; "Pay no attention," said you, "it is only the red flag we have in our pockets that is sticking out." And it happened that some few believed you. We ourselves, in the very face of all our suspicions, let ourselves be caught by the waving of your big Scaramouche sleeves, that were a great deal too long for your arms. Then you talked of such beautiful things: liberty, emancipation of workmen, association of the working-classes, that we listened and thought we would see you at your task before we condemned you utterly. And now we have seen you at your task, and knowing how you work, we won't give you any more work to do. Down with your mask, I tell you! Come, false Danton, be Rigault again, and let Serailler's[61] face come out from behind that Saint Just mask he has on. You, Napoleon Gaillard, though you are a shoemaker, you are not even a Simon. Drop the Robespierre, Rogeard! Off with the trappings borrowed from the dark, grand days! Be mean, small, and ridiculous,—be yourselves; we shall all be a great deal more at our ease when you are despicable and we are despising you again.

Paris said to you yesterday just what I am telling you now. This almost general abstention of electors, compared with the eagerness of former times, is but the avowal of the error to which your masquerade has given rise. And what does it prove but the resolution to mix in your carnival no more? We see clearly through it now, I tell you, that the saturnalia is wearing to its end. In vain does the orchestra of cannon and mitrailleuses, under the direction of the conductor, Cluseret, play madly on and invite us to the fete. We will dance no more, and there is an end of it!

But it will be fatal to Paris if, after saying this, she sit satisfied. Contempt is not enough, there must be abhorrence too, and actual measures taken against those we abhor. It is not sufficient to neglect the poll, one abstains when one is in doubt, but now that we doubt no longer it is time to act. While wrongful work is being done, those that stand aside with folded arms become accomplices. Think that for more than a fortnight the firing has not ceased; that Neuilly and Asnieres have been turned into cemeteries; that husbands are falling, wives weeping, children suffering. Think that yesterday, the 18th of April, the chapel of Longchamps became a dependance—an extra dead-house—of the ambulances of the Press, so numerous were that day's dead. Think of the savage decrees passed upon the hostages and the refractory, those who shunned the Federates; of the requisitions and robberies; of the crowded prisons and the empty workshops, of the possible massacres and the certain pillage. Think of our own compromised honour, and let us be up and doing, so that those who have remained in Paris during these mournful hours, shall not have stood by her only to see her fall and die.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 61: Serailler, a member of the International, intrusted with a commission to London on behalf of the Central Committee to borrow cash for the daily pay of thirty sous to the National Guard.]



LVI.

Paris! for once I defy you to remain indifferent. You have had much to bear, during these latter days; it has been said to you, that you should kneel in your churches no more, and you have not knelt there; that the newspapers that pleased you, should be read no more, and you have not read them. You have continued to smile—with but the tips of your lips, it is true—and to promenade on the boulevards. But now comes stalking on that which will make you shudder indeed! Do you know what I have just read in the Independance Belge? Ah! poor Paris, the days of your glory are past, your ancient fame is destroyed, the old nursery rhyme will mock you, "Vous n'irez plus au Bois, vos lauriers sont coupes."[62] This is what has happened; you are supplanted on the throne of fashion. The world, uneasy about the form of bonnet to be worn this sorrowful year, and seeing you occupied with your internal discords, anxiously turned to London for help, and London henceforth dictates to all the modistes of the universe. City of desolation, I pity you! No more will you impose your sovereign laws, concerning Suivez-moi-jeune-homme[63] and dog-skin gloves. No more will your boots and shirt-collars reach, by the force of their reputation, the sparely-dressed inhabitants of the Sandwich Islands. And, deepest of humiliations, it is your old rival, it is your tall and angular sister, it is the black city of London, who takes your glittering sword and transforms it into a policeman's baton of wood! You are destined to see within your walls—if any walls remain to you—your own wives and daughters clog their dainty tread with encumbrances of English leather, flatten their heads beneath mushroom-shaped hats, surround themselves with crinoline and flounces, and wear magenta, that abominable mixture of red and blue which always filled your soul with horror. Then, to increase the resemblance of your Parisian women with the Londoners or Cockneys (for it is time you learnt the fashionable language of England), your dentists will sell them new sets of teeth, called insular sets, which can be fitted over their natural front teeth, and will protrude about a third of an inch beyond the upper lip. And they will have corsets offered them whose aim is to prolong the waist to the farthest possible limits and compress the fairest forms—a fact, for report says they lace in London, whilst here we have nearly abandoned the corset. Well, my Paris, do you tremble and shiver? Oh! when those days of horror come to pass! when you see that not only have you forfeited your pride, but your vanity too; when you are convinced that the Commune has not only rendered you odious, but ridiculous as well; ah! then, when you wear bonnets that you have not invented, how deeply will you regret that you did not rebel on that day, when some of the best of your citizens were put au secret in the cells of Mazas prison![64]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 62: The refrain of a nursery song,—

"Go no more to the wood, for all the laurels are cut."

]

[Footnote 63: The long floating ends of the neck ribbons.]

[Footnote 64: The Parisian play-writer's English exhibits all the typical peculiarities noted above. We have our ideal, if not typical, Frenchman, little less truthful perhaps—taken from refugees and excursionists, from the close-cropped, dingy denizen of Leicester Square; our tourist suits, heavy pedestrian toots, "wide-awakes," and faded fashions, used up in travel—all these things are put down to insular peculiarities.]



LVII.

I have just heard or read, a touching story; and here it is as I remember it. In the Faubourg Saint Antoine lives a community of women with whom the aged of the poor find shelter; those who have become infirm, or have dropped into helpless childishness, whether men or women, are received there without question or payment. There they are lodged, fed and clothed, and humbly prayed for.

Last evening, sleep was just beginning to reign in the little community. The old people had been put to rest, each Little Sister had done her duty and was asleep, when the report of a gun resounded at the house-door. You can imagine the startings and the terror. The Little Sisters of the poor are not accustomed to have such noises in their ears, and there was a tumult and hubbub such as the house had never known, while they hurriedly rose, and the old people stared at each other from their white beds in the long dormitories. When the house-door was got open, a party of men, with a menacing look about them, strode in with their guns and swords, making a horrible racket. One of them was the chief, and he had a great beard and a terrible voice. All the Little Sisters gathered in a trembling crowd about the superior.

"Shut the doors," cried the captain, "and if one of these women attempt to escape—one, two, three, fire!" Then the Good Mother—that is the Little Sisters' name for their superior—made a step forward and said, "What do you wish, messieurs?"

"Citizens, sacrebleu!"

The Good Mother crossed herself and, repeated, "What do you wish, my brothers?"



Now, if Citizen Rigault, who put Monseigneur Darboy down so wittily, had been there, how briskly he would have told the stupid woman that these were National Guards, and not brothers, before her. But even Rigault cannot be everywhere at once. "We want to inspect your funds," replied the officer. The Good Mother signed to him to follow, opened a cupboard, pulled out a drawer, and said, "This is what we have." The box had twenty-two francs in it. "Is that all?" asked the captain in a suspicious tone.—"Nothing more, monsieur," she said; "besides, you can look everywhere for yourselves." So the National Guards spread through the house, opened the rooms, searched the cupboards and chests, and came at last, without having found anything, to the dormitories, where the Little Sisters' old nurselings were lying. Every head was upraised in astonishment and fear, and all, stammering and trembling, began jabbering out at once, "What are you doing here? You are not going to hurt the good Sisters? It's a shame! It's infamous! Go away! It's cowardly! My good monsieur, what will become of us if you take them away?" The old women were furious, and the old men in lamentations. Officer and men scarcely expected such a scene, and began to hesitate in their search. "Well, well, my good people," said the officer, who had been the most violent, and had now softened down, "we won't take the Little Sisters away, and we won't hurt them either. There, there—are you satisfied?"—and the men began to go downstairs again.—"My sister, you have not shut your drawer," said the captain, as he passed the cupboard.—"That is true, monsieur; I am not in the habit of doing it. In our house, you see, it is quite useless."—"Never mind, shut it to-day at any rate. How can I know all the men I have about me?" And as he spoke, the captain turned back, shut the drawer himself, without touching the contents, and gave the key to the superior. He seemed quite ill at ease, and got out at last, "We didn't know ... if we had known it was like this ... you see we had been told ... yes, yes, it is very good of you to take care of those poor old folks upstairs." Now that the man seemed embarrassed and showed some kindliness in his manner, a Little Sister who had quite got over her fear, went up to him and told him how frightened they had been for a whole month past; that they had been told that the Reds wanted to take their house. Ah! it was horrible! But monsieur would protect them, would he not?

"That I will," bravely answered the captain; "give me your hand. And now, if any one wants to harm you, he will have me to deal with first."

A few minutes later, the National Guards were gone, the Little Sisters and the old nurslings were at rest again, and the house was just as silent and peaceful as if it were no abominable resort of plotters and conspirators.

But if I had been the Commune of Paris, would I not have shot that captain!



LVIII.

The people of the Hotel de Ville said to themselves, "All our fine doings and talking come to nothing, the delegate Cluseret and the commandant Dombrowski send us the most encouraging despatches in vain, we shall never succeed in persuading the Parisian population, that our struggle against the army of Versailles is a long string of decisive victories; whatever we may do, they will finish by finding out that the federate battalions gave way strangely in face of the iron-plated mitrailleuses the day before yesterday at Asnieres, and it would be difficult to make them believe that this village, so celebrated for fried fish and Paris Cockneys, is still in our possession, unless we can manage to persuade them that although we have evacuated Asnieres, we still energetically maintain our position there. The fact is, affairs are taking a tolerably bad turn for us. How are we to get over the inconvenience of being vanquished? What are we to do to destroy the bad impression produced by our doubtful triumphs?" And thereupon the members of the Commune fell to musing. "Parbleu!" cried they, after a few moments' reflection—the elect of Paris are capable of more in a single second than all the deputies of the National Assembly in three years—"Let decrees, proclamations, and placards be prepared. By what means, did we succeed in imposing on the donkeys of Paris? Why, by decrees, by proclamations, by placards. Courage, then, let us persevere. Ha! the traitors have taken the chateau of Becon, and have seized upon Asnieres. What matters! quick, eighty pens and eighty inkstands. To work, men of letters; painters and shoemakers, to work! Franckel, who is Hungarian; Napoleon Gaillard, who is a cobbler; Dombrowski, who is a Pole; and Billioray, who writes omelette with an h, will make perhaps rather a mess of it. But, thank heaven! We have amongst us Felix Pyat, the great dramatist; Pierre Denis, who has made such bad verses that he must write good prose; and lastly, Vermorel, the author of 'Ces Dames,' a little book illustrated with photographs for the use of schools, and 'Desperanza,' a novel which caused Gustave Flaubert many a nightmare. To work, comrades, to work! We have been asked for a long time what we understand by the words—La Commune. Tell them, if you know. Write it, proclaim it, and we will placard it. Even if you don't know, tell them all the same; the great art of a good cook consists in making jugged hare without hare of any kind." And this is why there appeared this morning on the walls an immense placard, with the following words in enormous letters: "Declaration to the French people."

Twenty days ago a long proclamation, which pretended to express and define the tendencies of the revolution of the eighteenth of March, would perhaps have had some effect. To-day we have awaked from many illusions, and the finest phrases in the world will not overcome our obstinate indifference. Let us, however, read and note.

DELEGATE OF PUBLIC SAFETY.]

"In the painful and terrible conflict which once more imposes upon Paris the horrors of the siege and the bombardment, which makes French blood flow, which causes our brothers, our wives, our children, to perish, crushed by shot and shell, it is urgent that public opinion should not be divided, that the national conscience should not be troubled."

That's right! I entirely agree with you; it is undoubtedly very urgent that public opinion should not be divided. But let us see what means you are going to take to obtain so desirable a result.

"Paris and the whole nation must know what is the nature, the reason, the object of the revolution which is now being accomplished."

Doubtless; but if that be indispensable to-day, would it have been less useful on the very first day of the revolution; we do not see why you have made us wait quite so long for it.

"The responsibility of the mourning, the suffering, and the misfortunes of which we are the victims should fall upon those who, after having betrayed France and delivered Paris to the foreigner, pursue with blind obstinacy the destruction of the capital, in order to bury under the ruins of the Republic and of Liberty the double evidence of their treason and their crime."

Heigho! what a phrase! These clear and precise expressions, that throw so much light on the gloom of the situation, are these yours, Felix Pyat? Did the Commune say "Pyat Lux!" Or were they yours, Pierre Denis? Or yours, Vermorel? I particularly admire the double evidence buried under the ruins of the Republic. Happy metaphor!

"The duty of the Commune is to affirm and determine the aspirations and the views of the population of Paris; to fix precisely the character of the movement of the 18th of March, misunderstood, misinterpreted, and vilified by the men who sit at Versailles."

Ah, yes, that is the duty of the Commune, but for heaven's sake don't keep us waiting, you see we are dying with impatience.

"Once more, Paris labours and suffers for the whole of France, and by her combats and her sacrifices prepares the way for intellectual, moral, administrative and economic regeneration, glory and prosperity."

That is so true that since the Commune existed in Paris, the workshops are closed, the factories are idle, and France, for whom the capital sacrifices herself, loses something like fifty millions a day. These are facts, it seems to me; and I don't see what the traitors of Versailles can say in reply.

"What does Paris demand?"

Ah! yes, what does she ask? Truly we should not be sorry to know. Or rather, what do you ask; for in the same way as Louis le Grand had the right to say, "The State, I am the State," you may say "Paris, we are Paris."

"Paris demands the recognition and the consolidation of the Republic, the only form of government compatible with the rights of the people, and the regular and free development of society."

This once you are right. Paris demands the Republic, and must yearn for it eagerly indeed, since neither your excesses nor your follies have succeeded in changing its mind.

"It demands the absolute entirety of the Commune extended to all the localities of France, ensuring to everyone the integrity of its rights, and to every Frenchman the free exercise of his faculties and abilities as man, citizen, and workman. The rights of the Commune should have no other limit, but the equal rights of all other Communes adhering to the contract, an association which would assure the unity of France."

This is a little obscure. What I understand is something like this. You would make France a federation of Communes, but what is the meaning of words "adherence to the contract?" You admit then that certain Communes might refuse their adhesion. In that case what would be the situation of these rebels? Would you leave them free? Or would you force them to obey the conventions of the majority? Do you think it would be sufficient, in the case of such a town as Pezenas, for example, refusing to adhere, that the association would be incomplete? That is to say, that French unity would not exist? Are you very sure about Pezenas? Who tells you that Pezenas may not have its own idea of independence, and that, we may not hear presently that it has elected a duke who raises an army and coins money. Duke of Pezenas! that sounds well. Remember, also, that many other localities might follow the example of Pezenas, and perhaps in order to insure the entirety of the Commune, it might have been wise to have asked them if they wanted it. Now, what do you understand by "localities?" Marseilles is a locality; an isolated farm in the middle of a field is also a locality. So France would be divided into an infinite number of Communes. Would they agree amongst themselves, these innumerable little states? Supposing they are agreed to the contract, it is not impossible that petty rivalries should lead to quarrels, or even to blows; an action about a party-wall might lead to a civil war. How would you reduce the recalcitrant localities to reason? for even supposing that the Communes have the right to subjugate a Commune, the disaffected one could always escape you by declaring that it no longer adheres to the social compact. So that if this secession were produced not only by the vanity of one or more little hamlets, but by the pride of one or more great towns, France would find herself all at once deprived of her most important cities. Ah! messieurs, this part of your programme certainly leaves something to be desired, and I recommend you to improve it, unless indeed you prefer to suppress it altogether.

"The inherent rights of the Commune are 'the vote of the Commmunal budget, the levying and the division of taxes, the direction of the local services, the organisation of the magistrature, of the police, and of education, and of the administration of the property belonging to the Commune.'"

This paragraph is cunning. It does not seem so at first sight, but look at it closely, and you will see that the most Machiavellic spirit has presided over its production. The ability consists in placing side by side with the rights which incontestably belong to the Commune, other rights which do not belong to it the least in the world, and in not appearing to attach more importance to one than to the other, so that the reader, carried away by the evident legitimacy of many of your claims, may say to himself, "Really all that is very just." Let us unravel if you please this skein of red worsted so ingeniously tangled. The vote of the Communal budget, receipts and expenses, the levying and division of taxes, the administration of the Communal property, are rights which certainly belong to the Commune; if it had not got them it would not exist. And why do they belong to it? Because it alone could know what is good for it in these matters, and could come to such decision upon them, as it thought fit, without injuring the whole country. But it is not the same as regards measures concerning the magistracy, the police, and education. Well, suppose one fine day a Commune should say, "Magistrates? I don't want any magistrates; these black-robed gentry are no use to me; let others nourish these idlers, who send brave thieves and honest assassins to the galleys; I love assassins and I honour thieves, and more, I choose that the culprits should judge the magistrates of the Republic." Now, if a Commune were to say that, or something like that, what could you answer in reply? Absolutely nothing; for, according to your system, each locality in France has the right to organise its magistracy as it pleases. As regards the police and education, it would be easy to make out similar hypotheses, and thus to exhibit the absurdity of your Communal pretensions. Should a Commune say, "No person shall be arrested in future, and it is prohibited under pain of death to learn by heart the fable of the wolf and the fox." What could you say to that? Nothing, unless you admitted that you were mistaken just now in supposing, that the integrity of the Commune ought to have no other limit but the right of equal independence of all the other Communes. There exists another limit, and that is the general interests of the country, which cannot permit one part of it to injure the rest, by bad example or in any other way; the central power alone can judge those questions where a single absurd measure—of which more than one "locality" may probably be guilty—might compromise the honour or the interests of France; the magistracy, the police, and education, are evidently questions of that nature.

The other rights of the Commune are, always be it understood, according to the declaration made to the French people:

"The choice by election or competition; with the responsibility and the permanent right of control over magistrates and communal functionaries of every class;

"The absolute guarantee of individual liberty, of liberty of conscience, and of liberty of labour;

"The permanent participation of the citizens in Communal affairs by the free manifestations of their opinions, and the free defence of their interests: guarantees to this effect to be given by the Commune, the only power charged with the surveillance and the protection of the full and just exercise of the rights of meeting and publicity;

"The organisation of the city defences and of the National Guard, which elects its own officers, and alone ensures the maintenance of order in the city."

With regard to the affirmation of these rights we may repeat that which we have said above, that some of them really belong to the Commune, but that the greater part of them do not.

"Paris desires nothing more in the way of local guarantees, on condition, let it be understood, of finding in the great central administration ..."

"... In the great central administration appointed by the federated Commune the realisation and the practice of the same principles."

That is to say, in other words, that Paris will consent willingly to be of the same opinion as others, if all the world is of the same opinion as itself.

"But, thanks to its independence, and profiting by its liberty of action, Paris reserves to itself the right of effecting, as it pleases, the administrative and economic reforms demanded by the population; to create proper institutions for the development and propagation of instruction, production, commerce, and credit; to universalize power and property,..."

Whew! Universalize property! Pray what does that mean, may I ask? Communalism here presents a singular likeness to Communism!

"... According to the necessities of the moment, the desire of those interested, and the lessons famished by experience:

"Our enemies deceive themselves or the country when they accuse Paris of wishing to impose its will or its supremacy on the rest of the nation, and to pretend to a dictatorship which would be a positive offence against the independence and the sovereignty of the other Communes:

"They deceive themselves, or they deceive the country, when they accuse Paris of desiring the destruction of French unity, constituted by the Revolution amid the acclamations of our fathers hurrying to the Festival of the Federation from all points of ancient France:

"Political unity as imposed upon us up to the present time by the empire, the monarchy, and parliamentarism, is nothing more than despotic centralization, whether intelligent, arbitrary, or onerous.

"Political unity, such as Paris demands, is the voluntary association of all local initiatives, the spontaneous and free cooperation of individual energies with one single common object—the well-being and the security of all.

"The Communal revolution, inaugurated by the popular action of the 18th of March, ushers in a new era of experimental, positive, and scientific politics."

Do you not think that during the last paragraphs the tone of the declaration is somewhat modified? It would seem as though Felix Pyat had become tired, and handed the pen to Pierre Denis or to Delescluze, —after Communalism comes socialism.

"Communal revolution is the end of the old governmental and clerical world, of militarism, of officialism (this new editor seems fond of words ending in ism), of exploitation, of commission, of monopolies, and of privileges to which the proletariat owes his thralldom, and the country her misfortunes and disasters."

Of course there is nothing in the world that would please me better; but if I were very certain that Citizen Rigault did not possess an improved glass enabling him to observe me from a distance of several miles, without leaving his study or his armchair, if I were very certain that Citizen Rigault could not read over my shoulder what I am writing at this moment, I might perhaps venture to insinuate, that the revolution of the 18th of March appears to me to be, at the present moment, the apotheosis of most of the crimes which it pretends to have suppressed.

"Let then our grand and beloved country, deceived by falsehood and calumnies, be reassured!"

Well, in order that she may be reassured there is only one thing to be done,—be off with you!

"The struggle going on between Paris and Versailles is one of those which can never be terminated by deceitful compromises. There can be no doubt as to the issue. (Oh, no! there is no doubt about it.) Victory, pursued with indomitable energy by the National Guard, will remain with principle and justice.

We ask it of France."

Where is the necessity, since you have the indomitable energy of the National Guard?".

"Convinced that Paris under arms possesses as much calmness as bravery ..."

You will find that a very difficult thing to persuade France to believe.

"... That it maintains order with equal energy and enthusiasm ..."

Order? No doubt, that which reigned at Warsaw; the order that reigned on the day after the 2nd of December.

"... That it sacrifices itself with as much judgment as heroism ..."

Yes; the judgment of a man who throws himself out of a fourth-floor window to prove that his head is harder than the paving-stones.

"... That it is only armed through devotion for the glory and liberty of all—let France cause this bloody conflict to cease!"

She'll cause it to cease, never fear, but not in the way you understand it.

"It is for France to disarm Versailles ..."

Up to the present time she has certainly done precisely the contrary.

"... by the manifestations of her irresistible will. As she will be partaker in our conquests, let her take part in our efforts, let her be our ally in this conflict, which can only finish by the triumph of the Communal idea, or the ruin of Paris."

The ruin of Paris! That is only, I suppose, a figurative expression.

"For ourselves, citizens of Paris, it is our mission to accomplish the modern revolution, the grandest and most fruitful of all those that have illuminated history.

"Our duty is to struggle and to conquer!

"THE COMMUNE OF PARIS."

Such is this long, emphatic, but often obscure declaration. It is not wanting, however, in a certain eloquence; and, although frequently disfigured by glaring exaggerations, it contains here and there some just ideas, or at least, such as conform to the views of the great majority. Will it destroy the bad effect produced by the successive defeats of the Federals at Neuilly and at Asnieres? Will it produce any good feeling towards the Commune in the minds of those who are daily drawing farther and farther from the men of the Commune? No; it is too late. Had this proclamation been placarded fifteen or twenty days sooner, some parts of it might have been approved and the rest discussed. Today we pass it by with a smile. Ah! many things have happened during the last three days. The acts of the Commune of Paris no longer allow us to take its declarations seriously, and we look upon its members as too mad—if not worse—to believe that by any accident they can be reasonable. These men have finished by rendering detestable whatever good there originally was in their idea.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 65: He was born in 1841, in the department of the Rhone. His education was completed very early. At the age of twenty he was engaged on two journals of the opposition, La Jeune France, and La Jeunesse. Those papers were soon suppressed, and their young contributor was imprisoned for three months. In 1864 he became one of the staff of the Presse, whence he passed to the Liberte in 1866. Two years later he founded the Courrier Francais; but from the multiplicity of fines imposed upon it, and from the imprisonment of its founder, the new journal expired very shortly. After a year's incarceration at Sainte-Pelagie, Vermorel was engaged on the Reforme, which continued to appear until the fall of the Empire. During the siege he served as a private in the National Guard. He became a member of the Committee of Justice under the Commune, and was one of those who, at its fall, neither deserted nor disgraced it. He is reported to have mounted a barricade armed only with a cane, crying "I come here to die and not to fight." His mother obtained permission to transport his remains to Venice.]



LIX.

We have a court-martial; it is presided over by the citizen Rossel, chief of the grand staff of the army. It has just condemned to death the Commandant Girod, who refused to march against the "enemy." The Executive Committee, however, has pardoned Commandant Girod. Let us look at this matter a little. If the Executive Committee occupies its time in undoing what the court-martial has done, I can't quite understand why the executive has instituted a court-martial at all. If I were a member of the latter I should get angry. "What! I should say, they instal me in the hall where the courts-martial are held, they appoint guards to attend upon me, and my president has the right to say, 'Guards, remove the prisoner.' In a word, they convert me into something which resembles a judge as much as a parody can resemble the work burlesqued, and when I, a member of the court-martial, desire to take advantage of the rights that have been conferred upon me, and order the Commandant Girod to be shot, they stand in the way of justice, and save the life of him I have condemned. This is absurd! I had a liking for this commandant, and I wished him to die by my hands."

Never mind, court-martial, take it coolly; you will have your revenge before long. At this moment there are at least sixty-three ecclesiastics in the prisons of Mazas, the Conciergerie, and La Sante. Although they are not precisely soldiers, they will be sent before you to be judged, and you may do just what you like with them, without any fear of the executive commission interposing its veto. The refractory also will give you work to do, and against them you can exercise your pleasure. As to the Commandant Girod, his is a different case, you understand. He is the friend of citizen Delescluze. The members of the Commune have not so many friends that they can afford to have any of them suppressed. But don't be downcast; a dozen priests are well worth a major of the National Guard.



LX.

It is precisely because the men that the Commune sends to the front, fight and die so gloriously, that we feel exasperated against its members. A curse upon them, for thus wasting the moral riches of Paris! Confusion to them, for enlisting into so bad a service, the first-rate forces which a successful revolt leaves at their disposal. I will tell you what happened yesterday, the 22nd of April, on the Boulevard Bineau; and then I think you will agree with me that France, who has lost so much, still retains some of the bright, dauntless courage which was her. pride of old.

A trumpeter, a mere lad of seventeen, was marching at the head of his detachment, which had been ordered to take possession of a barricade that the Versailles troops were supposed to have abandoned. When I say, "he marched," I am making a most incorrect statement, for he turned somersets and executed flying leaps on the road, far in advance of his comrades, until his progress was arrested by the barricade; this he greeted with a mocking gesture, and then, with a bound or two, was on the other side. There had been some mistake, the barricade had not been abandoned. Our young trumpeter was immediately surrounded by a pretty large number of troops of the line, who had lain hidden among the sacks of earth and piles of stones, in the hope of surprising the company which was advancing towards them. Several rifles were pointed at the poor boy, and a sergeant said: "If you move a foot, if you utter a sound, you die!" The lad's reply was to leap to the highest part of the barricade and cry out, with all the strength of his young voice, "Don't come on! They are here!" Then he fell backwards, pierced by four balls, but his comrades were saved!



LXI.

Another, and a sadder scene happened in the Avenue des Ternes. A funeral procession was passing along. The coffin, borne by two men, was very small, the coffin of a young child. The father, a workman in a blouse, walked behind with a little knot of other mourners. A sad sight, but the catastrophe was horrible. Suddenly a shell from Mont Valerien fell on the tiny coffin, and, bursting, scattered the remains of the dead child upon the living father. The corpse was entirely destroyed, with the trappings that had surrounded it. Massacring the dead! Truly those cannons are a wonderful, a refined invention!



LXII.

At last the unhappy inhabitants of Neuilly are able to leave their cellars. For three weeks, they have been hourly expecting the roofs of their houses to fall in and crush them; and with much difficulty have managed during the quieter moments of the day to procure enough to keep them from dying of starvation. For three weeks they have endured all the terrors, all the dangers of battle and bombardment. Many are dead—they all thought themselves sure to die. Horrible details are told. A little past Gilet's restaurant, where the omnibus office used to be, lived an old couple, man and wife. At the beginning of the civil war, two shells burst, one after another, in their poor lodging, destroying every article of furniture. Utterly destitute, they took refuge in the cellar, where after a few hours of horrible suspense, the old man died. He was seventy, and the fright killed him; his wife was younger and stronger, and survived. In the rare intervals between the firing she went out and spoke to her neighbours through the cellar gratings—"My husband is dead. He must be buried; what am I to do?"—Carrying him to the cemetery was of course out of the question; no one could have been found to render this mournful duty. Besides, the bearers would probably have met a shell or a bullet on the way, and then others must have been found to carry them. One day, the old woman ventured as far as the Porte Maillot, and cried out as loud as she could, "My husband is dead in a cellar; come and fetch him, and let us both through the gates!"—The sentinel facetiously (let us hope it was nothing worse) took aim at her with his rifle, and she fled back to her cellar. At night, she slept by the side of the corpse, and when the light of morning filtered into her dreary place of refuge, and lighted up the body lying there, she sobbed with grief and terror. Her husband had been dead four days, when putrefaction set in, and she, able to bear it no longer, rushed out screaming to her neighbours: "You must bury him, or I will go into the middle of the avenue and await death there!"—They took pity on her, and came down into her cellar, dug a hole there and put the corpse in it. During three weeks she continued there, resting herself on the newly-turned earth. To-day, when they went to fetch her she fainted with horror; the grave had been dug too shallow, and one of the legs of the corpse was exposed to gaze.



This morning, the 25th of April, at nine o'clock, a dense crowd moved up the Champs Elysees: pedestrians of all ages and classes, and vehicles of every description. The truce obtained by the members of the Republican Union of the rights of Paris was about to begin, and relief was to be carried to the sufferers at Neuilly. However, some precautions were necessary, for neither the shooting nor the cannonade had ceased yet, and every moment one expected to see some projectile or other fall among the advancing multitude. In the Avenue de la Grande Armee a shell had struck a house, and set fire to it. Gradually the sound of the artillery diminished, and then died away entirely; the crowd hastened to the ramparts.



The Porte Maillot has been entirely destroyed for some time, in spite of what the Commune has told us to the contrary; the drawbridge is torn from its place, the ruined walls and bastions have fallen into the moat. The railway-station is a shapeless mass of blackened bricks, broken stones, glass, and iron-work; the cutting where the trains used to pass is half filled up with the ruins. It is impossible to get along that way. Fancy the hopeless confusion here, arising among this myriad of anxious beings, these hundreds of carts and waggons, all crowding to the same spot. Each one presses onwards, pushing his neighbour, screaming and vociferating; the National Guards try in vain to keep order. To add to the difficulties there is some form to be gone through about passes. I manage to hang on to a cart which is just going over the bridge; after a thousand stoppages and a great deal of pushing and squeezing, I succeeded in getting out, my clothes in rags. A desolate scene meets my eyes. In front of us, is the open space called the military zone, a dusty desert, with but one building remaining, the chapel of Longchamps; it has been converted into an ambulance, and the white flag with the red cross is waving above it. Truly the wounded there must be in no little danger from the shells, as it lies directly in their path. To the left is the Bois de Boulogne, or rather what used to be the wood, for from where I stand but few trees are visible, the rest is a barren waste. I hasten on, besides I am hard pressed from behind. Here we are in Neuilly, at last. The desolation is fearful, the reality surpassing all I could have imagined. Nearly all the roofs of the houses are battered in, rafters stick out of the broken windows; some of the walls, too, have fallen, and those that remain standing are riddled with blackened holes. It is there that the dreadful shells have entered, breaking, grinding furniture, pictures, glasses, and even human beings. We crunch broken glass beneath our feet at every step; there is not a whole pane in all the windows. Here and there are houses which the bullets seemed to have delighted to pound to atoms, and from which dense clouds of red and white dust are wafted towards us. Well, Parisians, what do you say to that? Do you not think that Citizen Cluseret, although an American, is an excellent patriot, and "In consideration of Neuilly being in ruins, and of this happy result being chiefly due to the glorious resistance organized by the delegate Citizen Cluseret, decrees: That the destroyer of Neuilly, Citizen Cluseret, has merited the gratitude of France and the Republic."

[Illustration: THE INHABITANTS OF NEUILLY ENTERING PARIS DURING THE ARMISTICE OF THE 28TH OF APRIL

The firing ceased from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon, when Paris cabs, furniture-vans, ambulance-waggons, band-barrows, and all sorts of vehicles were requisitioned to bring in the sad remains and dilapidated household goods of the suburban bombardes. They entered by the gate of Ternes—for that of Porte Maillot was in ruins and impassable. Many went to the Palais de l'Industrie, in the Champs Elysees, where a commission sat to allot vacant apartments in Paris. On this occasion some robberies were committed, and refractories escaped: it is even said that hard-hearted landlords wished to prevent their lodgers from departing—an object in which the proprietors were not very successful. The poor woman perched on the top of her relics, saved from the cellar in which she had lived in terror for fourteen days, deplores the loss of her husband and the shapeless mass of ruin and rubbish she once called her happy home; whilst her boys bring in green stuff from the surburban gardens, and a middle-aged neighbour stalks along with his pet parrot, the bird all the while amusing himself with elaborate imitations of the growl of the mitrailleuse and the hissing of shells ending with terrific and oft-repeated explosions.]

Out of all the houses, or rather from what was once the houses, emerge the inhabitants carrying different articles of furniture, tables, mattresses, boxes. They come out as it were from their graves. Relations meet and embrace, after having suffered almost the bitterness of death. Thousands run backwards and forwards; the carts are heaped up to overflowing, everything that is not destroyed must be carried away. A large van filled with orphan children moves on towards the barrier; a sister of charity is seated beside the driver. The most impatient of the refugees are already through the Porte Maillot; who will give them hospitality there? No one seems to think of that. The excitement caused by all this movement is almost joyous under the brilliant rays of the sun. But time presses, in a few minutes the short truce will have expired. Stragglers hurry along with heavy loads. At the gates, the crowding and confusion are greater than in the morning. Carts heavily laden, move slowly and with difficulty; the contents of several are spilled on the highway. More shouting, crowding, and pushing, until the gates are passed at last, and the emigrant crowd disperses along the different streets and avenues into the heart of Paris. A happy release from bondage, but what a dismal promised land!

Then the cannonading and musketry on either side recommences. Destroy, kill, this horrible quarrel can only end with the annihilation of one of the two parties engaged. Go on killing each other if you will have it so, combatants, fellow-countrymen. Some wretched women and children will at least sleep in safety to-night, in spite of you!



Yes, my good friends and idlers, the sad scene would not have been complete without your presence to relieve its sadness. If respect for your persons kept you away from danger, it at least gives zest to the place, a locality that in a few short minutes will be dangerous again. At five the armistice was over, but for all that, the National Guard had great difficulty in clearing the ground, until real danger, the excitement sought for, arrived, and sent the spectators much further up the Avenue de la Grande Armee.



LXIII.

I had almost made up my mind not to continue these notes. Tired and weary, I remained two days at home, wishing to see nothing, hear nothing, trying to absorb myself in my books, and to take up the lost thread of my interrupted studies, but all to no purpose.

It is ten in the morning, and I am out again in search of news. How many things may have happened in two days! Not far from the Hotel de Ville excited groups are assembled at the corners of the streets that lead out of the Rue de Rivoli. They seem waiting for something—what are they waiting for? Vague rumours, principally of a peaceful and conciliatory nature, circulate from group to group, where women decidedly predominate.

"If they help us we are saved!" says a workwoman, who is holding a little boy in the dress of a national guard by the hand.—"Who?" I ask.—"Ah! Monsieur, it is the Freemasons who are taking the side of the Commune; they are going to cross Paris before our eyes. The Commune must be in the right if the Freemasons think so."—"Here they come!" says the little boy, pulling his mother along with all his strength.

, DELEGATE OF JUSTICE.]

The vehicles draw up on one side to make room, the crowd presses to the edge of the pavement. The drums beat, a military band strikes up the "Marseillaise." First come five staff-officers, and then six members of the Commune, wearing their red scarfs, fringed with gold. I fancy I recognize Citizens Delescluze and Protot among them. "They are going to the Hotel de Ville!" cries an enthusiastic butcher-boy, holding a large basket of meat on his head, which he steadies with one hand, while with the other he makes wild signs to two companions on the other side of the way. "I saw them this morning in the Place du Carrousel," he continues in the same strain. "That was fine, I tell you! And then this battalion came to fetch them, with the music and all. Now they are going to salute the Republic; come along, I say. Double quick time!" So the butcher-boy, and the woman with the child, and myself, and all the rest of the bystanders, turn and follow the eight or ten thousand members of Parisian freemasonry who are crowding along the Rue de Rivoli. In the front and rear of the procession I notice a large number of unarmed men, dressed in loose Zouave trousers of dark-blue cloth, with white gaiters, white bands, and blue jackets. Their heads are mostly bare. I am told these are the Communist sharpshooters. Ever so far on in front of us a large white banner is floating, bearing an inscription which I cannot manage to read on account of the distance. However, the butcher-boy has made it out, and informs us that "Love one another" is written there. Happy, delusive Freemasons! "Tolerate one another" is scarcely practicable! In the meantime we continue to follow at the heels of the procession. There is much shouting and noise, here and there a feeble "Vive la Commune!" But the principal cries are, "Down with the murderers! Death to assassins! Down with Versailles!" A Freemason doffs his hat and shouts, "Vive la Paix! It is peace we are going to seek!"

I am still sadly confused, and cannot make up my mind what all this is about. Patience, however, I shall know all at the Hotel de Ville. Here we are. The National Guard keeps the ground, and the whole procession files into the Cour d'Honneur. Carried on by the crowd, I find myself near the entrance and can see what is going on inside. The whole of the Commune is out on the balcony, at the top of the grand staircase, in front of the statue of the Republic, which like the Communists wears a red scarf. Great trophies of red flags are waving everywhere. Men bearing the banners of the society are stationed on every step; on each is inscribed, in golden letters, mottos of peace and fraternity. A patriarchal Freemason, wearing his collar and badges, has arrived in a carriage; they help him to alight with marks of the greatest respect. The court is by this time full to overflowing, an enthusiastic cry of "Vive la Franc Maconnerie! Vive la Republique Universelle!" is re-echoed from mouth to mouth. Citizen Felix Pyat, member of the Commune, who is on the balcony, comes forward to speak. I congratulate myself on being at last about to hear what all this means. But I am disappointed. The pushing and squeezing is unbearable. I have vigorously to defend my hat, stick, purse, and cigar-case, and am half stifled besides. I almost despair of catching a single word, but at last succeed in hearing a few detached sentences:—"Universal nationality.... liberty, equality, and fraternity.... manifestos of the heart...." (what is that?) "the standard of humanity.... ramparts...." If I could only get a little nearer—the words "homicidal balls.... fratricidal bullets.... universal peace...." alone reach me. Is it to hear such stuff as this, that the Freemasons have come to the Hotel de Ville? I suppose so, for after a little more of the same kind the whole is drowned in a stupendous roar of "Vive la Commune!" and "Vive la Republique!" I have given up all hope of ever understanding.

]

"They have come to draw lots to see who is to go and kill M. Thiers," cries a red-haired gamin.—"Idiot," retorts his comrade, "they have no arms!"—"Listen, and you will hear," says the first, which is capital advice, if I could but follow it. The pushing becomes intolerable, when suddenly the bald head of an unfortunate citizen executes a fatal plunge—I can breathe at last—and the following words reach me pretty clearly:—"The Commune has decided that we shall choose five members who are to have the honour of escorting you, and we are to draw lots...."—"There! was I not right?" cries he of the carrotty hair; "I knew they were going to draw lots!" A cleverly administered blow, however, soon silences his elation, and we hear that the lots have been drawn, and that five members are chosen to aid "this glorious, this victorious act." There seems more rhyme than reason in this. "An act that will be read of in the future history of France and of humanity." Here the irrepressible breaks out again:—"Now I am sure they are going to kill M. Thiers!" Whereupon his irritated adversary seizes him by the collar, gives his head some well-applied blows against the curb-stone, and then, pushing through the crowd, carries him off bodily. As for me, my curiosity unsatisfied, I grow resigned—may the will of the Commune be done—and I give it up. More hopeless mystification from the Citizen Beslay, who regrets not having been chosen to aid in this "heroic act." He also alludes to the drawing of lots, and I begin after all to fancy poor M. Thiers must be at the bottom of it all, but he continues: —"Citizens, what can I say after the eloquent discourse of Felix Pyat? You are about to interest yourselves in an act of fraternity...." (then something horrible is surely contemplated) "in hoisting your banner on the walls of our city, and mixing in our ranks against our enemies of Versailles." A sudden light breaks upon me. In the meantime Citizen Beslay is embracing the nearest Freemason, while another begs the honour of being the first to plant his banner, the Perseverance, which was unfurled in 1790, on the ramparts. Here a band plays the "Marseillaise," horribly out of tune; a red flag is given to the Freemasons, with an appropriate harangue; then the Citizen Terifocq takes back the flag, with another harangue, and ends by waving it aloft and roaring, "Now, citizens, no more words; to action!"

This is clear, the Freemasons are to hoist their banner on to the walls of Paris side by side with the standard of the Commune; and who is blind enough to imagine, that the shells and bullets, indiscriminately homicidal, fratricidal, and infanticidal as they prove, are imbued with tact sufficient to steer clear of the Freemasons' banners, and injure in their flight only those of the Commune? As the Versailles projectiles have only one end in view, that of piercing both the Parisians and their standards, as a national consequence if both Parisians and standards are pierced, it is likewise most probable that the Masonic banners will not remain unscathed in so dangerous a neighbourhood. And if so, what will be the result? According to Citizen Terifocq "the Freemasons of Paris will call to their aid the direst vengeance; the Masons of all the provinces of France will follow their example; everywhere the brothers will fraternise with the troops which are marching on to help Paris. On the other hand, if the Versailles gunners do not aim at the Masons, but only at the National Guards (sic!), then the Masons will join the battalions in the field, and encourage by their example the gallant soldiers, defenders of the city." This is all rather complicated—what can come of it? Escorted by an ever-increasing crowd, we reach the Place de la Bastille. Several discourses are spouted forth at the foot of the column, but the combined effects of noise, dust, and fatigue have blunted my senses, and I hear nothing; it seems, however to be about the same thing over again, for the same acclamations of the crowd greet the same gestures on the part of the orators.

We are off again down the Boulevards; the long procession, with its waving banners and glittering signs, is hailed by the populace with delight. Having reached the Place de la Concorde, I loiter behind. Groups are stationed here and there. I go from one to another, trying to gather what these open-air politicians think of all this Masonic parade. Shortly fugitives are seen hurrying back from the Champs Elysees, shouting, and gesticulating. "Horror! Abomination! They respect nothing! Vengeance!" I hear a brother-mason has been killed by a shell opposite the Rue du Colysee; that the white flag is riddled with shot; that the Versailles rifles have singled out, killed and wounded several masons.

In a very short time the terrible news, increased and exaggerated as it spread, filled every quarter of Paris with consternation. I returned home in a most perplexed state of mind, from which I could not arouse myself until the arrival, towards evening, of a friend, a freemason, and consequently well informed. This, it appears, is what took place.

"At the moment when the procession arrived in the Champs Elysees it formed itself into several groups, each choosing a separate avenue or street. One followed the Faubourg St. Honore and the Avenue Friedland as far as the Triumphal Arch, till it reached the Porte Maillot; a second proceeded to the Porte des Ternes by the Avenue des Ternes; a third to the Porte Dauphine by the Avenue Uehrich. Not a single freemason was wounded on the way, though shells fell on their passage from time to time. The VV.'.[Transcriber's note: triangular symbol of three dots here] of each lodge marched at the head, displaying their masonic banners.



"As soon as the white flag was seen flying from the bastion on the right of the Porte Maillot, the Versailles batteries ceased firing. The freemasons were then able to pass the ramparts and proceed towards Neuilly. There they were received rather coldly by the colonel in command of the detachment. The officers, including those in high command, were violently indignant against Paris. But the soldiers themselves seemed utterly weary of war.

"After some parleying the members of the manifestation obtained leave to send a certain number of delegates to Versailles, in order to make a second attempt at conciliation with the Government."

Will this new effort be more successful than the preceding one? Will the company of freemasons obtain what the Republican Union failed in procuring? I would fain believe it, but cannot. The obstinacy of the Versailles Assembly has become absolute deafness, though we must admit that the freemasons' way of trying to bring about reconciliation was rather singular, somewhat like holding a knife at Monsieur Thiers' throat and crying out, "Peace or your life!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 66: Memoir, see Appendix 6.]

[Footnote 67: Felix Pyat was born in 1810 at Vierzon. He came to Paris for the purpose of studying law, but soon abandoned his intention for the more genial profession of journalist. He contributed to the Figaro, the Charivari, the Revue de Paris, and the National. In 1848 he was named Commissary-General, and subsequently deputy of the department of the Cher. Having signed Ledru-Rollin's call to arms, he was obliged after the events of June to take refuge in England. Profiting by the amnesty of the fifteenth of August, 1869, he returned to France, but made himself so obnoxious to the Government by his virulent abuse of the Empire, that he was again expelled. The revolution of the fourth of September allowed him to re-enter France. He commenced an immediate and violent attack on the new government, which he continued until his journal, Le Combat, was suppressed. Needless to say that he was one of the chief actors in the insurrections of the thirty-first of October and the twenty-second of January. He was elected deputy, but soon resigned, for the purpose of connecting himself with the cause of the Commune. He edited the Vengeur and the Commune newspapers, and obtained a decree suppressing nearly all rival or antagonistic publications. At the fall of the Commune he fled no one knows where.]



LXIV.

No! no! Monsieur Felix Pyat, you must remain, if you please. You have been of it, you are of it, and you shall be of it. It is well that you should go through all the tenses of the verb, I am not astonished that a man as clever as you, finding that things were taking a bad turn, should have thought fit to give in your resignation. When the house is burning, one jumps out of window. But your cleverness has been so much pure loss, for your amiable confederates are waiting in the street to thrust you back into the midst of the flames again. It is in vain that you have written the following letter, a chef-d'oeuvre in its way, to the president of

"CITIZEN PRESIDENT,—If I had not been detained at the Ministry of War on the day when the election took place, I should have voted with the minority of the Commune. I think that the majority, for this once, is in the wrong."

"For this once" is polite.

"I doubt if she will ever retrieve her error."

If the Commune were to retrace its steps at each error it made, it would advance slowly.

"I think that the elected have not the right of replacing the electors. I think that the representatives have not the right of taking the place of the sovereign power. I think that the Commune cannot create a single one of its own members, neither make them nor unmake them; and, therefore, that it cannot of itself furnish that which is wanted to legalise their nominations'."

Oh! Monsieur Felix Pyat, legality is strangely out of fashion, and it is well for Versailles that it is so.

"I think also, seeing that the war has changed the population...."

Yes; the war has changed the population, if not in the way you understand it, at least in this sense, that a great many reasonable people have gone mad, and that many—ah! how many?—are now dead.

"I think that it was more just to change the law than to violate it. The ballot gave birth to the Commune, and in completing itself without it, the Commune commits suicide. I will not be an accomplice in the fault."

We understand that; it is quite enough to be an accomplice in the crime.

"I am so convinced of this truth, that if the Commune persist in what I call an usurpation of the elective power, I could not reconcile the respect due to the rote of the majority with the respect due to my own conscience; I shall therefore be obliged, much to my regret, to give in my resignation to the Commune before the victory.

"Salut et Fraternite.

"FELIX PYAT."

"Before the victory" is exquisitely comic! But, carried away by the desire of exhibiting the wit of which he is master, Monsieur Felix Pyat fails to perceive that his irony is a little too transparent, that "before the victory" evidently meant "before the defeat," and that consequently, without taking into account the excellent reasons given in his letter to the president of the Commune, we shall only recollect that rats run away when the vessel is about to sink. But this time the rats must remain at the bottom of the hold. Tour colleagues, Monsieur Pyat, will not permit you to be the only one to withdraw from the honours, since you have been with them in the strife. Not daring to fly themselves, they will make you stay. Vermorel will seize you by the collar at the moment you are about to open the door and make your escape; and Monsieur Pierre Denis,[68] who used to be a poet as well as a cobbler, will murmur in your ear these verses of Victor Hugo[69], which, with a few slight modifications, will suit your case exactly:—

"Maintenant il se dit: 'L'empire est chancelant; La victoire est peu sure.' Il cherche a s'en aller, furtif et reculant. Reste dans la masure!"

"Tu dis: 'Le plafond croule; ils vont, si l'on me voit, Empecher que je sorte.' N'osant rester ni fuir, tu regardes le toit, Tu regardes la porte.

"Tu mets timidement la main sur le verrou; Reste en leurs rangs funebres! Reste! La loi qu'ils ont enfouie en un trou Est la dans les tenebres.

"Reste! Elle est la, le flanc perce de leurs couteaux, Gisante, et sur sa biere Ils ont mis une dalle. Un pan de ton manteau Est pris sous cette pierre.

"Tu ne t'en iras pas! Quoi! quitter leur maison! Et fuir leur destinee! Quoi! tu voudrais trahir jusqu'a la trahison Elle-meme indignee!

"Quoi! n'as-tu pas tenu l'echelle a ces fripons En pleine connivence? Le sac de ces voleurs ne fut-il pas, reponds, Cousu par toi d'avance?

"Les mensonges, la haine au dard froid et visqueux, Habitent ce repaire; Tu t'en vas! De quel droit, etant plus renard qu'eux Et plus qu'elle vipere?"

And Monsieur Felix Pyat will remain, in spite of the thousand and one good reasons he would find to make a short tour in Belgium. His colleagues will try persuasion, if necessary—"You are good, you are great, you are pure; what would become of us without you?" and they will hold on to him to the end, like cowards who in the midst of danger cling to their companions, shrieking out, "We will die together!" and embrace them convulsively to prevent their escape.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 68: A writer in the Vengeur.]

[Footnote 69: For translation, see Appendix 7.]



LXV.

An anonymous writer, who is no other, it is said, than the citizen Delescluze, has just published the following:—

"The Commune has assured to itself the receipt of a sum of 600,000 francs a day—eighteen millions a month."

There was once upon a time a French forger, named Colle, celebrated for the extent and importance of his swindling, and who possessed, it was said, a very large fortune. When questioned upon the subject, he used to answer: "I have assured to myself a receipt of a hundred francs a day—three thousand francs a month."

Between Colle and the Commune there exists a difference, however: in the first place, Colle affected a particular liking for the clergy, whose various garbs he used frequently to assume, and the Commune cannot endure cures and secondly, while Colle, in assuring himself a receipt of three thousand francs a month, had done all that was possible for him to do, the Commune puts up with a miserable eighteen millions, when it might have ensured to itself a great deal more. It is astounding, and, I may add, little in accordance with its dignity, that it should be satisfied with so moderate an allowance. You show too much modesty; it is not worth while being victorious for so little. Eighteen millions—a mere nothing! Your delicacy might be better understood were you more scrupulous as to the choice of your means. Thank Heaven! you do not err on that score. Come! a little more energy, if you please. "But!" sighs the Commune, "I have done my best, it seems to me. Thanks to Jourde,[70] who throws Law into the shade, and to Dereure,[71] the shoemaker —Financier and Cobbler of La Fontaine's Fable—I pocket daily the gross value of the sale of tobacco, which is a pretty speculation enough, since I have had to pay neither the cost of the raw materials nor of the manufacture. I have besides this, thanks to what I call the 'regular income from the public departments,' a good number of little revenues which do not cost me much and bring me in a good deal. Now there's the Post, for instance. I take good care to despatch none of the letters that are confided to me, but I manage to secure the price of the postage by an arrangement with my employes. This shows cleverness and tact, I think. Finally, in addition to this, I get the railway companies to be kind enough to drop into my pockets the sum of two millions of francs: the Northern Railway Company will supply me with three hundred and ninety-three thousand francs; the Western, with two hundred and seventy-five thousand; the Eastern, three hundred and fifty-four thousand francs; the Lyons Railway Company, with six hundred and ninety-two thousand francs; the Orleans Railway, three hundred and seventy-six thousand francs. It is the financial delegate, Monsieur Jourde, who has the most brains of the whole band, who planned this ingenious arrangement. And, in truth, I consider that I have done all that is in my power, and you are wrong in trying to humiliate me by drawing comparisons between myself and Colle, who had some good, in him, but who was in no way equal to me." My dear, good Commune, I do not deny that, you have the most excellent intentions; I approve the tobacco speculation and the funds drawn from the public service money, in which you include, I suppose, the profits made in your nocturnal visits to the public and other coffers, and your fruitful rounds in the churches. As to the tax levied on railways, it inspires me with an admiration approaching enthusiasm. But, for mercy's sake, do not allow yourself to stop there. Nothing is achieved so long as anything remains to be done. You waste your time in counting up the present sources of your revenues, while so many opportunities remain of increasing them. Are there no bankers, no stock-brokers, no notaries, in Paris? Send a few of these honest patriots of yours to the houses of the reactionaries. A hundred thousand francs from one, two hundred thousand francs from another; it is always worth the taking. From small streams come great rivers. In your place I would not neglect the shopkeepers' tills either, or the money-chests of the rich. They are of the bourgeoisie, those people, and the bourgeois are your enemies. Tax them, morbleu! Tax them by all means. Have you not all your friends and your friends' friends to look after? Is it false keys that fail you? But they are easily made, and amongst your number you will certainly find one or two locksmiths quite ready to help you. Take Pilotel, for instance: a sane man, that! There were only eight hundred francs in the escritoire of Monsieur Chaudey, and he appropriated the eight hundred francs. Thus, you see, how great houses and good governments are founded. And when there is no longer any money, you must seize hold of the goods and furniture of your fellow-citizens. You will find receivers of stolen goods among you, no doubt. They told me yesterday that you had sent the Titiens and Paul Veroneses of the Louvre to London, in order to be able to make money out of them. A most excellent measure, that I can well explain to myself, because I can understand that Monsieur Courbet must have a great desire to get rid of these two painters, for whom he feels so legitimate and profound a hatred. But, alas! it was but a false report. You confined yourselves to putting up for sale the materials composing the Column of the Place Vendome; dividing them into four lots, two lots of stone and cement, and two lots of metal. Two lots only? Why! you know nothing about making the best of your merchandise. There is something better than stone and metal in this column. There is that in it which a number of silly people used to call in other times the glory of France. What a pretty spectacle—when the sale by auction is over—to see the buyers carrying away under their arms—one, a bit of Wagram; another, a bit of Jena; and some, who had thought to be buying a pound or two of bronze, having made the acquisition of the First Consul at Arcole or the Emperor at Austerlitz. It is a sad pity that you did not puff up the value and importance of your sale to the bidders. Your speculation would then have turned out better. You have managed badly, my dear Commune; you have not known how to take advantage of your position. Repair your faults, impose your taxes, appropriate, confiscate! All may be yours, disdain nothing, and have no fear of resistance; everyone is afraid of you. Here! I have five francs in my own pocket, will you have them?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 70: Jourde occupied the position of financial Minister under the Commune Government. He is well-educated, and is said to be one of the most intellectually distinguished of the Federal functionaries. He is a medical student, and said to be twenty-seven years of age. See Appendix 8.]

[Footnote 71: A working cobbler, and member of the International Society, which he represented at the Congress of Bale. He occupied a post on the Marseillaise newspaper, became a Commissary of Police after the fourth of September, and took part on the popular side in the outbreak of the thirty-first of October. He was deprived of his office by General Trochu's government, and appointed one of the delegates for justice, by the authorities of the Commune.]



LXVI.

"The social revolution could end but in one great catastrophe, of which the immediate effects would be—

"To make the land a barren waste:

"To put a strait jacket upon society:

"And, if it were possible that such a state of things could be prolonged for several weeks—

"To cause three or four millions of human beings to perish by horrible famine.

"When the Government shall be without resources, when the country shall be without produce and without commerce:

"When starving Paris, blockaded by the departments, will no longer discharge its debts and make payments, no longer export nor import:

"When workmen, demoralised by the politics taught at the clubs and the closing of the workshops, will have found a means of living, no matter how:

"When the State appropriates to itself the silver and ornaments of the citizens for the purpose of sending them to the Mint:

"When perquisitions made in the private houses are the only means of collecting taxes:

"When hungry bands spread over the country, committing robbery and devastation:

"When the peasant, armed with loaded gun, has to neglect the cultivation of his crops in order to protect them:

"When the first sheaf shall have been stolen, the first house forced, the first church profaned, the first torch fired, the first woman violated:

"When the first blood shall have been spilt:

"When the first head shall have fallen:

"When abomination and desolation shall have spread over all France—

"Oh! then you will know what we mean by a social revolution:

"A multitude let loose, arms in hand, mad with revenge and fury:

"Soldiers, pikes, empty homes, knives and crowbars:

"The city, silent and oppressed; the police in our very homes, opinions suspected, words noted down, tears observed, sighs counted, silence watched; spying and denunciations:

"Inexorable requisitions, forced and progressive loans, paper money made worthless:

"Civil war, and the enemy on the frontiers:

"Pitiless proconsuls, a supreme committee, with hearts of stone—

"This would be the fruits of what they call democratic and social revolution."

Who wrote this admirable page?—Proudhon.

O all-merciful Providence! Take pity on France, for she has come to this.



LXVII.

A balloon! A balloon! Quick! A balloon! There is not a moment to be lost. The inhabitants of Brive-la-Gaillarde and the mountaineers of Savoy are thirsting for news; let us shower manna on them. Write away! Pierre Denis! Pump in your gas, emulators of Godard! And may the four winds of heaven carry our "Declarations" to the four quarters of France! Ah! ah! The Versaillais—band of traitors that they are!—did not calculate on this. They raise soldiers, the simpletons; they bombard our forts and our houses, the idiots! But we make decrees, and distribute our proclamations throughout the country by means of an unlimited number of revolutionary aeronauts. May they be guided by the wind which blows across the mountains! How the honest labourers, the good farmers, the eager workers of the departments will rejoice when they receive, dropping, from the sky, the pages on which are inscribed the rights and duties of the man of the present day! They will not hesitate one single instant. They will leave their fields, their homes, their workshops, and cry, "A musket! a musket!" with no thought that they leave behind them women without husbands, and children without fathers! They will fly to us, happy to conquer or die for the glory of Citizen Delescluze and Citizen Vermorel! What ardour! What patriotism! Already they are on their way; they are coming, they are come! Those who had no fire-arms have seized their pickaxes or pieces of their broken ploughs! Hurrah! Forward! March! To arms, citizens, to arms! Hail to France, who comes to the rescue of Paris!

All to no purpose. I tell you the people of Brive-la-Gaillarde and the mountaineers of Savoy have not once thought of taking up arms. They have never been more tranquil or more resolute on remaining in peace and quiet than now. When they see one of your balloons—always supposing that it has any other end in view than of depositing repentant communists in safe, snug corners, pass the lines of the Versailles troops—when they see one of your balloons, they simply exclaim, "Hulloa! Here's a balloon! Where in the world can it come from?" If some printed papers fall from the sky, the peasant picks them up, saying, "I shall give them to my son to read, when he returns from school." The evening comes, the son spells them out, while the father listens. The son cannot understand; the father falls asleep. "Ah! those Parisians!" cries the mother. Can you wonder? These people are born to live and die without knowing all that is admirable in the men of the Hotel de Ville. They are fools enough to cling to their own lives and the lives of those near them. They do not go to war amongst themselves; they are poor ignorant creatures, and you will never make them believe that when once they have paid their taxes, worked, fed their wives and children, there still remains to them one duty to fulfil, more holy, more imperative than all others,—that of coming to the Porte-Maillot to receive a ball or a fragment of shell in their skulls.

But these balloons might be made of some use, nevertheless. Pick out one, the best made, the largest in size, the best rigged; put in Citizen Felix Pyat—who, you may be sure, will not be the last to sit down—and Citizen Delescluze too, nor must we omit Citizen Cluseret, nor any of the citizens who at the present moment constitute the happiness of Paris and the tranquillity of France! Now inflate this admirable balloon, which is to bear off all your hopes, with the lightest gases. Then blow, ye winds, terrifically, furiously, and bear it from us! Balloons can be capricious at times. Have you read, the story of Hans Pfaal? Good Heavens! if the wind could only carry them away, up to the moon, or even a great deal further still.



LXVIII.

I'm surprised myself, as I re-read the preceding pages, at the strange contradictions I meet with. During the first few days I was almost favourable to the Commune; I waited, I hoped. To-day all is very different. When I write down in the evening what I have seen and thought in the day, I allow myself to blame with severity men that inspired me formerly with some kind of sympathy. What has taken place? Have my opinions changed? I do not think so. Besides, I have in reality but one opinion. I receive impressions, describing these impressions without reserve, without prejudice. If these stray leaves should ever be collected in a volume, they will at least possess the rare merit of being thoroughly sincere. Is it then, that my nature is modified? By no means. If I were indulgent a month ago, it was that I did not know those of whom I spoke, and that I am of a naturally hopeful and benevolent disposition: if I now show myself severe, it is that—like the rest of Paris—I have learned to know them better.



LXIX.

The Commune has naturally brought an infinite number of journals into existence. Try, if you will, to count the leaves of the forest, the grains of sand on the seashore, the stars in the heavens, but do not, in your wildest dreams, attempt to enumerate the newspapers that have seen the light since the famous day of the 18th of March. Felix Pyat has a journal, Le Vengeur; Vermorel has a journal, Le Cri du People; Delescluze has a journal, Le Reveil; there is not a member of the Commune but indulges in the luxury of a sheet in which he tells his colleagues daily all the evil he thinks of them. It must be acknowledged that these gentlemen have an extremely bad opinion one of the other. I defy even the Gaulois of Versailles—yes, the Gaulois itself—to treat Felix Pyat as Vermorel treats him, and if it be remembered on the other hand what Felix Pyat says of Vermorel, the Gaulois will be found singularly good-natured. Napoleon cautioned us long ago "to wash our dirty linen at home," but good patriots cannot be expected to profit by the counsels of a tyrant. So the columns of the Commune papers are devoted to the daily and mutual pulling to pieces of the Commune's members. But where will these ephemeral sheets be in six months, in one month, or in a week's time perhaps? The wind which wafts away the leaves of the rose and the laurel, will be no less cruel for the political leaves. Let us then, for the sake of posterity, offer a specimen of what is—or as we shall soon say, what was—the Communalist press of to-day. Be they edited by Marotteau, or Duchesne, or Paschal Grousset, or by any other emulator of Paul-Louis Courier, these worthy journals are all much alike, and one example will suffice for the whole.

]

First of all, and generally in enormous type, stand the LATEST NEWS, the news from the Porte Maillot where the friends of the Commune are fighting, and the news from Versailles where the enemies of the country are sitting. They usually run somewhat in this style:—

"It is more and more confirmed that the Assembly of Versailles is surrounded and made prisoner by the troops returned from Germany. The generals of the Empire have newly proclaimed Napoleon: the Third, Emperor. After a violent quarrel about two National Guards whom Marshal MacMahon had had shot, but had omitted to have cooked for his soldiers, Monsieur Thiers sent a challenge to the Marshal, by his two seconds. These seconds were no other than the Comte de Chambord and the Comte de Paris. Marshal MacMahon chose the ex-Emperor and Paul de Cassagnac. The duel took place in the Rue des Reservoirs, in the midst of an immense crowd. The Marshal was killed, and was therefore obliged to renounce the command of the troops. But the Assembly would not accept his resignation.

"We are in the position to assert that a company of the 132nd Battalion has this morning surrounded fifteen thousand gendarmes and sergents-de-ville, in the park of Neuilly. Seeing that all resistance was useless, the supporters of Monsieur Thiers surrendered without reserve. Among them were seventeen members of the National Assembly, who, not content with ordering the assassination of our brothers, had wished also to be present at the massacre.

[73]

"A person worthy of credit has related to us the following fact:—A cantiniere of the 44th Battalion (from the Batignolles quarter), was in the act of pouring out a glass of brandy for an artilleryman of the Fort of Vanves, when suddenly the artilleryman was out in two by a Versailles shell; the brave cantiniere drank off the contents of the glass just poured out for the dead man who lay in bits at her feet, and took his place at the guns. She performed her new part of artilleryman so bravely, that ten minutes later there was not a single gun uninjured in the Meudon battery. As to those who were serving the pieces there, they were all hurled to a distance of several miles, and amongst them were said to have been recognised—we give this news however with great reserve—Monsieur Ollivier, the ex-minister of the ex-Emperor, and Count von Bismarck, who wished to verify for himself the actual range of the guns that he had lent to his good friends of Versailles."

After the LATEST NEWS come the reports of the day, the bulletin du jour as it is called now, and it is in this that the editor, a member of the Commune, reveals his talent. We trust that the following example is not quite unworthy of the pen of Monsieur Felix Pyat, or the signature of Monsieur Vermorel:—

"Paris, 29th April, 1871.

"They are lying in wait for us, these tigers athirst for blood.

"They are there, these Vandals, who have sworn that in all Paris not a single man shall be spared, nor a single stone, left standing.

"But we are not in their power yet. No, nor shall we ever be.

"The National Guard is on the watch; victorious and sublime, their soldierly breasts are not of flesh and blood, but of bronze, from which the balls rebound as they stand, dauntless, before the enemy.

"Ah! so these lachrymose Jules Favres, these fat Picards, these hungry Jules Ferrys, said amongst themselves, 'We will take Paris, we will tear it up, and its soil shall be divided after the victory between the wives of the sergents de ville!' They are beginning to understand all the insanity of their plan. Why, it is Paris that will take Versailles, that will take all those blear-eyed old men who, because they cannot look steadily at Monsieur Thiers' face, fancy that it is the sun.

"It is in vain that they gorge with blood and wine their deceived soldiers; the moment is approaching when these men will no longer consent to march against the city which is fighting for them. Already, yesterday, the melee of a battle could be distinguished from the fort of Vanves; the line had come to blows with the gendarmes of Valentin and Charette's Zouaves. Courage, Parisians! A few more days and you will have triumphed over all the infamy that dares to stop the march of the victorious Commune!

"But it is not enough to vanquish the enemies without, we must get rid also of the enemies that are within.

"No more pity! no more vacillation! The justice of the people is wearied of formalities, and cries out for vengeance. Death to spies! Death to the reactionaires! Death to the priests! Why does the Commune feed this collection of malefactors in your prisons, while the money they cost us daily would be so useful to the women and children of those who are fighting for the cause of Paris? We are assured that one of the prisoners ate half a chicken for his dinner yesterday; how many good patriots might have been saved from suffering with the sum which was taken from the chests of the Republic for this orgie! There is no longer time to hesitate; the Versaillais are shooting and mutilating the prisoners; we must revenge ourselves! We must show them such an example, that in perceiving from afar the heads of their infamous accomplices, the traitors of Versailles, stuck upon our ramparts, confounded by the magnanimity of the Commune, they will lay down their arms at last, and deliver themselves up as prisoners.

"As to the refractory of Paris, we cannot find words to express the astonishment we experience at the weakness that has been shown with regard to them.

"What! we permit that there should still be cowards in Paris? I thought they were all at Versailles. We allow still to remain amongst us men who are not of our opinion? This state of things has lasted too long. Let them take their muskets or die. Shoot them down, those who refuse to go forward. They have wives and children, they are fathers of families, they say; a fine reason indeed! The Commune before everything! And, besides, there must be no pity for the wives of reactionaires and the children of spies!"