Early in June of the present year I was making notes and sketches,
without the least idea of what I should do with them. I was at the
Mont-Parnasse Station of the Western Railway, awaiting a train from
Paris to St. Cloud. Our fellow passengers, as we discovered afterwards,
were principally prisoners for Versailles; the guards, soldiers; and
the line, for two miles at least, appeared desolation and ruin.
The façade of the station, a very large one, was pockmarked all over by
Federal bullets, whilst cannon balls had cut holes through the stone
wall as if it had been cheese, and gone down the line, towards
Cherbourg or Brest! The restaurant below was nearly annihilated, the
counters, tables, and chairs being reduced to a confused heap. But
there was a book-stall and on that book-stall reposed a little work,
entitled the “Bataille des Sept Jours,” a brochure which a friend
bought and gave to me, saying, “_Voilà la texte de vos croquis_,” From
seven days my ideas naturally wandered to seventy-three—the duration of
the reign of the Commune—and then again to two hundred and twenty
days—that included the Commune of 1871 and its antecedents. Hence this
volume, which I liken to a French château, to which I have added a
second storey and wings.
And now that the house is finished, I must render my obligations to M.
Mendès and numerous French friends, for their kind assistance and
valuable aid, including my confrères of “_The Graphic_,” who have
allowed me to enliven the walls with pictures from their stores; and
last, and not least, my best thanks are due to an English Peer, who
placed at my disposal his unique collection of prints and journals of
the period bearing upon the subject—a subject I am pretty familiar
with. Powder has done its work, the smell of petroleum has passed away,
the house that called me master has vanished from the face of the
earth, and my concierge and his wife are reported _fusillés_ by the
Versaillais; and to add to the disaster, my rent was paid in advance,
having been deposited with a _notaire_ prior to the First Siege.... But
my neighbours, where are they? In my immediate neighbourhood six houses
were entirely destroyed, and as many more half ruined. I can only speak
of one friend, an amiable and able architect, who, alas! remonstrated
in person, and received a ball from a revolver through the back of his
neck. His head is bowed for life. He has lost his pleasure and his
treasure, a valuable museum of art,—happily they could not burn his
reputation, or the monument of his life—a range of goodly folio volumes
that exist “_pour tous_.”