Never have I seen the dawn break with greater pleasure. Almost everyone
has some time in his life passed such sleepless nights, when it seems
to him that the darkness will never disappear, and the desire for light
and day becomes a fearful longing. Never was dawn more grateful than
after that wretched night. And yet the fear of a disastrous collision
did not disappear with the night. It was even likely that the Federals
might have waited for the morning to begin their attack, just when
fatigue is greatest, sleep most difficult to fight against, and
therefore discipline necessarily slackened. Anyhow, the light seemed to
reassure us; we could scarcely believe that the crime of civil war
could be perpetrated in the day-time. The night had been full of fears,
the morning found us bright and happy. Not all of us, however. I smile
as I remember an incident which occurred a little before daylight. One
of our comrades, who had been lying near me, got up, went out into the
street, and paced up and down some time, as if to shake off cramp or
cold. My eyes followed him mechanically; he was walking in front of the
houses, the backs of which look out upon the Passage des Panoramas, and
as he did so he cast furtive glances through the open doorways. He went
into one, and came out with a disappointed expression on his face.
Having repeated this strange manoeuvre several times, he reached a
_porte-cochère_ that was down by the side of the Restaurant Catelain.
He remained a few minutes, then reappeared with a beaming countenance,
and made straight for where I was standing, rubbing his hands
gleefully.
“Monsieur,” said he, in a low voice, so as not to be overheard, “do you
approve of this plan of action, which consists, in case of attack, of
shooting from the windows on the assailants?”—“A necessity of street
fighting,” said I. “Let us hope we shall not have to try it.”—“Oh! of
course; but I should have preferred it if they had taken other
measures.”—“Why?” I asked.—“Why, you see, when we are in the houses the
insurgents will try to force their way in.”—I could not see what he was
driving at, so I said, “Most probably.”—“But if they do get in?” he
insisted:—“I will trust to our being reinforced from the Place de la
Bourse before they can effect an entrance.”—“Doubtless! doubtless!” he
answered; but I saw he was anything but convinced.—“But you know
reinforcements often arrive too late, and if the Federals should get
in, we shall be shot down like dogs in those rooms overhead!”—I
acknowledged that this would be, to say the least, disagreeable, but
argued that in time of war one must take one’s chance.—“Do you think,
then, monsieur,” he continued, “that, if in the event of the insurgents
entering we were to look out for a back door to escape by, we should be
acting the part of cowards?”—“Of cowards? no; but of excessively
prudent individuals? yes.”:—“Well, monsieur, I am prudent, and there is
an end of it!” exclaimed my comrade, with an air of triumph, “and I
think I have found——” —“The back door in question?”—“Just go; look down
that passage in front of us; at the end there is a door which
leads—where do you think?”—“Into the Passage des Panoramas, does it
not?”—“Yes, monsieur, and now you see what I mean.”—I told him I did
not think I did.—“Why, you see,” he explained, “when the enemy comes we
must rush into that passage, shut the lower door, and make for our post
at the windows, where we will do our duty bravely to our last
cartridge. But suppose, in the meantime, that those devils, succeed in
breaking open the lower door with the butt end of their muskets—and it
is not very strong—what shall we do then?”—“Why, of course,” I said,
“we must plant ourselves at the top of the staircase and receive them
at the point of our bayonets.”—“By no means;” he expostulated.—“But we
must; it is our duty.”—“Oh! I fancied we might have gained the door
that leads into the passage,” he went on, looking rather
shame-faced.—“What, run away!”—“No, not exactly; only find some place
of safety!”—“Well, if it comes to that,” I replied, “you may do just as
you like; only I warn you that the passage is occupied by a hundred of
our men, and that all the outlets are barricaded.”—“No, not all,” he
said with conviction, “and that is why I appeal to you. You are a
journalist, are you not?”—“Sometimes.”—“Yes, but you are; and you know
actors and all those sort of people, and you go behind the scenes, I
dare say, and know where the actors dress themselves, and all that.”—I
looked at my brave comrade in some surprise, but he continued without
noticing me, “And, you know all the ins and outs of the theatre, the
corridors, the trapdoors.”—“Suppose I do, what good can that do
you?”—“All the good in the world, monsieur; it will be the saving of
me. Why we shall only have to find the actors’ entrance of the
_Variétés_, which is in the passage, then ring, at the bell; the porter
knows you, and will admit us. You can guide us both up the staircase
and behind the scenes, and we can easily hunt out some hole or corner
in which to hide until the fight is over.”—“Then,” said I, feeling
rather disgusted with my companion, “we can bravely walk out of the
front door on the boulevards, and go and eat a comfortable breakfast,
while the others are busy carrying away our dead comrades from the
staircase we ought to have helped to defend!”
The poor man looked at me aghast, and then went off. I saw that I had
hurt his feelings, and I thought perhaps I had been wrong in making him
feel the cowardice of his proposition. I had known him for some months;
he lived in the same street as I did, and I remembered that he had a
wife and children. Perhaps he was right in wishing to protect his life
at any price. I thought it over for a minute or two, and then it went
out of my mind altogether.
At four in the morning we had another alarm; in an instant every one
was on foot and rushing to the windows. The house to which I was
ordered was the very one that had inspired my ingenious friend with his
novel plan of evasion. I found him already installed in the room from
whence we were to fire into the street.—“You do not know what I have
done,” said he, coming up to me.—“No.”—“Well, you know the door which
opens on to the passage; you remember it?”—“Of course I do.”—“I found
there was a key; so what do you think I did? I double-locked the door,
and went and slipped the key down the nearest drain! Ha! ha! The fellow
who tries to escape that way will be finely caught!”
I seized him cordially by the hand and shook it many times. He was
beaming, and I was pleased also. I could not help feeling that however
low France may have fallen, one must never despair of a country in
which cowards even can be brave.