It is forbidden to cross the Place Vendôme, and naturally, walking
there is prohibited too. I had been prowling about every afternoon for
the last few days, trying to pass the sentinels of the Rue de la Paix,
hoping that some lucky chance might enable me to evade the military
order; all I got for my pains was a sharply articulated “_Passes au
large!_” and I remained shut out.
To-day, as I was watching for a favourable opportunity, a _petite dame_
who held up her skirts to show her stockings, which were as red as the
flag of the Hôtel de Ville—out upon you for a female
Communist!—approached the sentinel and addressed him with her most
gracious, smile. And oh, these Federals! The man in office forgot his
duty, and at once began with the lady a conversation of such an
intimate description, that for discretion’s sake I felt myself obliged
to take a slight turn to the left, and a minute later I had slipped
into the forbidden Place.
A Place?—no, a camp it might more properly be called. Here and there,
are seen a crowd of little tents, which would be white if they were
washed, and littered about with straw. Under the tents lie National
Guards; they are not seen, but plainly heard, for they are snoring. You
remember the absurd old bit of chop-logic often repeated in the classes
of philosophy? One might apply it thus: he sleeps well who has a good
conscience; the Federals sleep well; ergo, the Federals have a good
conscience. Guards walk to and fro with their pipes in their mouths. If
I were to say that these honourable Communists show by their easy
manner, gentlemanly bearing, and superior conversation, that they
belong to the cream of Parisian society, you would perhaps be
impertinent enough not to believe one word of what I said. I think it,
therefore, preferable in every way to assert the direct contrary. There
is a group of them flinging away their pay at the usual game of
_bouchon_. “The Soldier’s Pay and the Game of Cork” is the title that
might be given by those who would write the history of the National
Guard from the beginning of the siege to the present time. And if to
the cork they added the bottle, they might pride themselves upon having
found a perfect one. This is how it comes to pass. The wife is hungry,
and the children are hungry, but the father is thirsty, and he receives
the pay. What does he do? He is thirsty, and he must drink; one must
think of oneself in this world. When he has satisfied his thirst, what
remains? A few sous, the empty bottle, and the cork. Very good. He
plays his last sou on the famous game, and in the evening, when he
returns home, he carries to his family—what?—the empty bottle!
On the Place two barricades have been made, one across the Rue de la
Paix, and the other before the Rue Castiglione. “Two formidable
barricades,” say the newspapers, which may be read thus: “A heap of
paving stones to the right, and a heap of paving stones to the left.” I
whisper to myself that two small field-pieces, one on the place of the
New Opera-house, and the other at the Rue de Rivoli, would not be long
before they got the better of these two barricades, in spite of the
guns that here and there display their long, bright cylinders.
The Federals have decidedly a taste for gallantry. About twenty women—I
say young women, but not pretty women—are selling coffee to the
National Guards, and add to their change a few ogling smiles meant to
be engaging.
As to the Column, it has not the least appearance of being frightened
by the decree of the Commune which threatens it with a speedy fall.
There it stands like a huge bronze I, and the emperor is the dot upon
it. The four eagles are still there, at the four corners of the
pedestal, with their wreaths of immortelles, and the two red flags
which wave from the top seem but little out of place. The column is
like the ancient honour of France, that neither decrees nor bayonets
can intimidate, and which in the midst of threats and tumult, holds
itself aloft in serene and noble dignity.