Every hour that flies by, becomes more sinister than the last. They
fight at Clamart as they fight at Neuilly, at Meudon and at Courbevoie.
Everywhere rage the mitrailleuses, the cannon, and the rifle; the
victories of the Communalists are lyingly proclaimed. The truth of
their pretended triumphs will soon be known; and unhappily victory will
be as detestable as defeat.
General Duval has been made prisoner and put to death. “If you had
taken me,” asked General Vinoy, “would you not have shot me?”—“Without
hesitation,” replied Duval. And Vinoy gave the word of command, “Fire!”
But this anecdote, though widely spread, is probably false. It is
scarcely likely that a Commander-in-Chief of the Versailles troops
would have consented to hold such a dialogue with an “_insurgent_.”
Flourens also is killed. Where and how is not yet known with any
certainty. Several versions are given. Some speak of a ball in the
head, or the neck, or the chest; others spread the report that his
skull was cut open by a sword.
Flourens is thought about and talked of by men of the most opposite
opinions. This singular man inspires no antipathy even amongst those
who might hold him in the greatest detestation. I shall one day try to
account for the partiality of opinion in favour of this young and
romantic insurgent.
Duval shot, Flourens killed, Bergeret lying in the pangs of death; the
enthusiasm of the Federals might well be cooled down. Not in the least!
The battalions that march along the boulevards have the same resolute
air, as they sing and shout “_Vive la Commune!_” Are they the dupes of
their chiefs to that extent as to believe the pompous proclamations
with their hourly announcements of attacks repelled, of redoubts taken,
of soldiers of the line made prisoners? It is not probable. And
besides, the guards of the respective quarters must see the return of
those who have been to the fight, and whose anxious wives are waiting
on the steps of the doors; must learn from them that the forward
marches have in reality been routs, and that many dead and wounded have
been left on the field, when the Commune reports only declare “losses
of little importance.” Whence comes this ardour that the first rush and
defeat cannot check? Is it nourished by the reports, true or false, of
the cruelties of the Versaillais which are spread by the hundred? The
“murder” of Duval, the “assassination” of Flourens, prisoners shot,
_vivandières_ violated, all these culpable inventions—can they be
inventions, or does civil war make such barbarians of us?—are indeed of
a nature to excite the enthusiasm of hate, and the men march to a
probable defeat with the same air as they would march to certain
victory. Ah! whether led astray or not, whether guilty, even, or
whatever the motive that impels them, they are brave! And when they
pass thus they are grand. Yes! in spite of the rags that serve the
greater number of them for uniforms, in spite of the drunken gait of
some, as a whole they are superb! And the reason of the coldest
partisan of order at any price, struggles in vain against the
admiration which these men inspire as they march to their death.
It must be admitted, too, that there is much less disorder in the
command than might be expected. The battalions all know whom they are
to obey. Some go to the Hôtel de Ville, others to the Place Vendôme,
many to the forts, a few to the advanced posts; marches and
counter-marches are managed without confusion, and the combatants are
in general well provided with ammunition, and supplied with provisions.
Far as one is from esteeming the chiefs of the Federals, one is obliged
to admit that there is something remarkable in this rapid organisation
of a whole army in the midst of one of the most complete political
convulsions. Who, then, directs? Who commands? The members of the
Commune, divided as they are in opinion, do not appear capable, on
account of their number and lamentable inexperience, of taking the sole
lead in military affairs. Is there not some one either amongst them or
in the background, who knows how to think, direct, and act? Is it
Bergeret? Is it Cluseret? The future perhaps will unravel the mystery.
In the meantime, and in spite of the reverses to which the Federals
have had to submit during these last days, the whole of Paris unites in
unanimous surprise at the extreme regularity with which the
administrative system of the war seems to work, the surprise being the
greater that, during the siege, the “legitimate” chiefs with much more
powerful means, and having disciplined troops at their command, did not
succeed in obtaining the same striking results.
But would it not have been better far that that order had never
existed? Better a thousand times that the command had been less precise
than that those commanded should have been led to a death without
glory? For the last few days Neuilly, so joyous in times gone by with
its busy shops, its frequented _restaurants_ and princely parks;
Neuilly, with the Versailles batteries on one side and the Paris guns
on the other, under an incessant rain of shells and _mitraille_ from
Mont Valérien; Neuilly, with her bridge taken and re-taken, her
barricades abandoned and re-conquered, has been for the last few days
like a vast abyss, into which the Federal battalions, seized with
mortal giddiness, are precipitated one after another. Each house is a
fortress. Yesterday, the _gendarmes_ had advanced as far as the market
of Sablonville; this morning they were driven back beyond the church.
Upon this church, a child; the son of Monsieur Leullier, planted a red
flag amidst a shower of projectiles. “That child will make a true man,”
said Cluseret, the war delegate. Ah, yes! provided he is not a corpse
ere then. Shots are fired from window to window. A house is assaulted;
there are encounters, on the stairs; it is a horrible struggle in which
no quarter is given, night and day, through all hours. The rage and
fury on both sides are terrific. Men that were friends a week ago have
but one desire—to assassinate each other. An inhabitant of Neuilly, who
succeeded in escaping, related this to me: Two enemies, a soldier of
the line and a Federal, had an encounter in the bathing establishment
of the Avenue de Neuilly, a little above the Rue des Huissiers. Now
pursuing, now flying from each other in their bayonet-fight, they
reached the roof of the house, and there, flinging down their arms,
they closed in a mad struggle. On the sloping roof, the tiles of which
crush beneath them, at a hundred feet from the ground, they struggled
without mercy, without respite, until at last the soldier felt his
strength give way, and endeavoured to escape from the gripe of his
adversary. Then, the Federal—the person from whom I learnt this was at
an opposite window and lost not a single one of their movements—the
Federal drew a knife from his pocket and prepared himself to strike his
half-prostrate antagonist, who, feeling that all hope was lost, threw
himself flat on the roof, seized his enemy by the leg, and dragging him
with him by a sudden movement, they rolled over and fell on to the
pavement below. Neither was killed, but the soldier had his face
crimsoned with blood and dust, and the Federal, who had fallen across
his adversary, despatched him by plunging his knife in his chest.
Such is this infamous struggle! Such is this savage strife! Will it not
cease until there is no more blood to shed? In the meantime, Paris of
the boulevards, the elegant and fast-living Paris, lounges, strolls,
and smiles. In spite of the numerous departures there are still enough
blasé dandies and beauties of light locks and lighter reputation to
bring the blush to an honest man’s cheek. The theatres are open; “_La
Pièce du Pape_” is being played. Do you know “The Pope’s Money?” It is
a suitable piece for diverting the thoughts from the horrors of civil
war. A year ago the Pope was supported by French bayonets, but his
light coinage would not pass in Paris. Now Papal zouaves are killing
the citizens of Paris, and we take light silver and lighter paper. The
piece is flimsy enough. It is not its political significance that makes
it diverting, but the _double-entendre_ therein. One must laugh a
little, you understand. Men are dying out yonder, we might as well
laugh a little here. Low whispers in the _baignoires_, munching of
sugared violets in the stage boxes—everything’s for the best.
Mademoiselle Nénuphar (named so by antithesis) is said to have the most
beautiful eyes in the world. I will wager that that handsome man behind
her has already compared them to mitraille shot, seeing the ravages
they commit. It would be impossible to be more complimentary,—more
witty and to the point. Ah! look you, those who are fighting at this
moment, who to-day by their cannon and chassepots are exposing Paris to
a terrible revenge, guilty as these men are, I hold them higher than
those who roar with laughter when the whole city is in despair, who
have not even the modesty to hide their joys from our distresses, and
who amuse themselves openly with shameless women, while mothers are
weeping for their children!
On the boulevards it is worse still; there, vice exhibits itself and
triumphs. Is it then true what a young fellow, a poor student and
bitter philosopher, said to me just now: “When all Paris is destroyed,
when its houses, its palaces, and its monuments thrown down and
crushed, strew its accursed soil and form but one vast ruin beneath the
sky, then, from out of this shapeless mass will rise as from a huge
sepulchre, the phantom of a woman, a skeleton dressed in a brilliant
dress, with shoulders bared, and a toquet on its head; and this
phantom, running from ruin to ruin, turning its head every now and then
to see if some libertine is following her through the waste—this
phantom is the leprous soul of Paris!”
When midnight approaches, the _cafés_ are shut. The delegates of the
Central Committee at the ex-prefecture have the habit of sending
patrols of National Guards to hasten and overlook the closing of all
public places. But this precaution, like so many others, is useless.
There are secret doors which escape the closest investigations. When
the shutters are put up, light filters through the interstices of the
boards. Go close up to them, apply your eye to one of those lighted
crevices, listen to the cannon roaring, the mitrailleuses horribly
spitting, the musketry cracking, and then look into the interior of the
closed rooms. People are talking, eating, and smoking; waiters go to
and fro. There are women too. The men are gay and silly. Champagne
bottles are being uncorked. “Ah! ah! it’s the fusillade!” Lovers and
mistresses are in common here. This orgie has the most telling effect,
I tell you, in the midst of the city loaded with maledictions, a few
steps from the battle-field where the bayonets are dealing their death
thrusts, and the shells are scattering blood. And later, after the
laughter and the songs and the drink, they take an open carriage, if
the night is fine, and go to the Champs Elysées, and there mount upon
the box by the coachman to try and see the fight—if “those people” knew
how to die as well as they know how to laugh it would be better for
them.
Other _bons viveurs_, more discreet, hide themselves on the first
floors of some houses and in some of the clubs. But they are betrayed
by the sparkle of the chandeliers which pierces the heavy curtains. If
you walk along by the walls you will hear the conversation of the
gamesters and the joyous clink of the gold pieces.
Ah! the cowardice of the merry ones! Oh, thrice pardonable anger of
those who starve!