It is two in the morning. Tired of doing nothing I take out my
note-book, seat myself on a doorstep opposite the Restaurant Catelain,
and jet down my memoranda by the light of a street lamp.
As soon as night came on, every measure of precaution was taken. We
have no idea by whom we are commanded, but it would appear that a
serious defence is contemplated, and is being executed with prudence.
Is it Admiral Saisset who is at our head? We hope so. Although we have
been so often disappointed in our chiefs, we have not yet lost the
desire to place confidence in some one. To-night we believe in the
admiral. Ever and anon our superior officers retire to the _mairies_,
and receive strict orders concerning their duty. We are quite an army
in ourselves; our centre is in the Place de la Bourse, our wings extend
into the adjoining streets. Lines of Nationals guard all the openings;
sentinels are posted sixty feet in front to give the alarm. Within the
enclosed space there is no one to be seen, but the houses are inhabited
as usual. The doors have been left open by order, and also all the
windows on the first floors. Each company, divided under the command of
sergeants, has taken possession of three or four houses. At the first
signal of alarm the street-doors are to be closed, the men to rush to
the windows, and from there to fire on the assailants. “Hold yourselves
in readiness; it is very possible you may be attacked. On the approach
of the enemy the guards in the streets are to fall back under fire
towards the houses, and take shelter there. Those posted at the windows
are to keep up an unceasing fire on the insurgents. In the meantime the
bulk of our forces will come to our aid, and clear the streets with
their mitrailleuses.”
So we waited, resolved on obedience, calm, with a silent but fervent
prayer that we might not be obliged to turn our arms against our
fellow-townsmen.
The night is beautiful. Some of our men are talking in groups on the
thresholds of the doors, others, rolled in their blankets, are lying on
the ground asleep. In the upper storeys of some of the houses lights
are still twinkling through the muslin curtains; lower down all is
darkness. Scarcely a sound is to be heard, only now and then the rumble
of a heavy cart, or perhaps a cannon in the distance; and nearer to us
the sudden noise of a musket that slips from its resting-place on to
the pavement. Every hour the dull sound of many feet is heard; it is
the patrol of Mobiles making its round. We question them as they
pass.—“Anything fresh?”—“Nothing,” is the invariable reply.—“How far
have you been?”—“As far as the Rue de la Paix,” they answer, and pass
on. Interrupted conversations are resumed, and the sleepers, who had
been awakened by the noise, close their eyes again. We are watching and
waiting,—may we watch and wait in vain!