What is absolutely stupefying in the midst of all this, is the smiling
aspect of the streets and the promenades. The constantly increasing
emigration is only felt by the diminution in the number of depraved
women and dissipated men; enough, however, remain to fill the cafés and
give life to the boulevards. It might almost be said that Paris is in
its normal state.
Every morning, from the Champs Elysées, Les Ternes, and Vaugirard,
families are seen removing into the town, out of the way of the
bombardment, as at the time when Jules Favre anathematised the
barbarity of the Prussians. Some pass in cabs, others on foot, walking
sadly, with their bedding and household furniture piled on a cart. If
you question these poor people, they will all tell you of the shells
from the Versailles batteries, destroying houses and killing women and
children. What matters it? Paris goes her usual round of business and
pleasure. The Commune suppresses journals and imprisons journalists.
Monsieur Richardet, of the _National_, was marched off to prison
yesterday, for the sole crime of having requested a passport of the
savage Monsieur Rigault; the Commune thrusts the priests into cells,
and turns out the young girls from the convents, imprisons Monsieur
O’yan, one of the directors of the Seminary of St. Sulpice; hurls a
warrant of arrest at Monsieur Tresca, who escapes; tries to capture
Monsieur Henri Vrignault, who however, succeeds in reaching a place of
safety; the Commune causes perquisitions to be made by armed men in the
banking houses, seizes upon title deeds and money; has strong-boxes
burst open by willing locksmiths; when the locksmiths are tired, the
soldiers of the Commune help them with the butt-ends of their muskets.
They do worse still, these Communists—they do all that the
consciousness of supreme power can suggest to despots without
experience; each day they send honest fathers of families to their
death, who think they are suffering for the good cause, when they are
only dying for the good pleasure of Monsieur Avrial and Monsieur
Billioray. Well! and what is Paris doing all this time? Paris reads the
papers, lounges, runs after the last news and ejaculates: “Ah! ah! they
have put Amouroux into prison! The Archbishop of Paris has been
transferred from the Conciergerie to Mazas! Several thousand francs
have been stolen from Monsieur Denouille! Diable! Diable!” And then
Paris begins the same round of newspaper reading, lounging, and
gossiping again. Nothing seems changed. Nothing seems interrupted. Even
the proclamation of the famous Cluseret, who threatens us all with
active service in the marching regiments, has not succeeded in
troubling the tranquillity and indifference of the greater number of
Parisians. They look on at what is taking place, as at a performance,
and only bestow just enough interest upon it to afford them amusement.
This evening the cannonading has increased; on listening attentively,
we can distinguish the sounds of platoon-firing; but Paris takes its
glass of beer tranquilly at the Café de Madrid and its Mazagran at the
Café Riche. Sometimes, towards midnight, when the sky is clear, Paris
goes to the Champs Elysées, to see things a little nearer, strolls
under the trees, and smoking a cigar exclaims: “Ah! there go the
shells.” Then leisurely compares the roar of the battle of to-day to
that of yesterday. In strolling about thus in the neighbourhood of the
shells, Paris exposes itself voluntarily to danger; Paris is
indifferent, and use is second nature. Then bed-time comes, Paris looks
over the evening papers, and asks, with a yawn, where the devil all
this will end? By a conciliation? Or the Prussians perhaps? And then
Paris falls asleep, and gets up the next morning, just as fresh and
lusty as if Napoleon the Third were still Emperor by the grace of God
and the will of the French nation.