I had almost made up my mind not to continue these notes. Tired and
weary, I remained two days at home, wishing to see nothing, hear
nothing, trying to absorb myself in my books, and to take up the lost
thread of my interrupted studies, but all to no purpose.
It is ten in the morning, and I am out again in search of news. How
many things may have happened in two days! Not far from the Hôtel de
Ville excited groups are assembled at the corners of the streets that
lead out of the Rue de Rivoli. They seem waiting for something—what are
they waiting for? Vague rumours, principally of a peaceful and
conciliatory nature, circulate from group to group, where women
decidedly predominate.
“If _they_ help us we are saved!” says a workwoman, who is holding a
little boy in the dress of a national guard by the hand.—“Who?” I
ask.—“Ah! Monsieur, it is the Freemasons who are taking the side of the
Commune; they are going to cross Paris before our eyes. The Commune
must be in the right if the Freemasons think so.”—“Here they come!”
says the little boy, pulling his mother along with all his strength.
[Illustration: Protot[66], Delegate of Justice.]
The vehicles draw up on one side to make room, the crowd presses to the
edge of the pavement. The drums beat, a military band strikes up the
“Marseillaise.” First come five staff-officers, and then six members of
the Commune, wearing their red scarfs, fringed with gold. I fancy I
recognize Citizens Delescluze and Protot among them. “They are going to
the Hôtel de Ville!” cries an enthusiastic butcher-boy, holding a large
basket of meat on his head, which he steadies with one hand, while with
the other he makes wild signs to two companions on the other side of
the way. “I saw them this morning in the Place du Carrousel,” he
continues in the same strain. “That was fine, I tell you! And then this
battalion came to fetch them, with the music and all. Now they are
going to salute the Republic; come along, I say. Double quick time!” So
the butcher-boy, and the woman with the child, and myself, and all the
rest of the bystanders, turn and follow the eight or ten thousand
members of Parisian freemasonry who are crowding along the Rue de
Rivoli. In the front and rear of the procession I notice a large number
of unarmed men, dressed in loose Zouave trousers of dark-blue cloth,
with white gaiters, white bands, and blue jackets. Their heads are
mostly bare. I am told these are the Communist sharpshooters. Ever so
far on in front of us a large white banner is floating, bearing an
inscription which I cannot manage to read on account of the distance.
However, the butcher-boy has made it out, and informs us that “Love one
another” is written there. Happy, delusive Freemasons! “Tolerate one
another” is scarcely practicable! In the meantime we continue to follow
at the heels of the procession. There is much shouting and noise, here
and there a feeble “_Vive la Commune!_” But the principal cries are,
“Down with the murderers! Death to assassins! Down with Versailles!” A
Freemason doffs his hat and shouts, “_Vive la Paix!_ It is peace we are
going to seek!”
I am still sadly confused, and cannot make up my mind what all this is
about. Patience, however, I shall know all at the Hôtel de Ville. Here
we are. The National Guard keeps the ground, and the whole procession
files into the Cour d’Honneur. Carried on by the crowd, I find myself
near the entrance and can see what is going on inside. The whole of the
Commune is out on the balcony, at the top of the grand staircase, in
front of the statue of the Republic, which like the Communists wears a
red scarf. Great trophies of red flags are waving everywhere. Men
bearing the banners of the society are stationed on every step; on each
is inscribed, in golden letters, mottos of peace and fraternity. A
patriarchal Freemason, wearing his collar and badges, has arrived in a
carriage; they help him to alight with marks of the greatest respect.
The court is by this time full to overflowing, an enthusiastic cry of
“Vive la Franc Maçonnerie! Vive la République Universelle!” is
re-echoed from mouth to mouth. Citizen Félix Pyat, member of the
Commune, who is on the balcony, comes forward to speak. I congratulate
myself on being at last about to hear what all this means. But I am
disappointed. The pushing and squeezing is unbearable. I have
vigorously to defend my hat, stick, purse, and cigar-case, and am half
stifled besides. I almost despair of catching a single word, but at
last succeed in hearing a few detached sentences:—“Universal
nationality.... liberty, equality, and fraternity.... manifestos of the
heart....” (what is that?) “the standard of humanity.... ramparts....”
If I could only get a little nearer—the words “homicidal balls....
fratricidal bullets.... universal peace....” alone reach me. Is it to
hear such stuff as this, that the Freemasons have come to the Hôtel de
Ville? I suppose so, for after a little more of the same kind the whole
is drowned in a stupendous roar of “Vive la Commune!” and “Vive la
République!” I have given up all hope of ever understanding.
[Illustration: Félix Pyat.[67]]
“They have come to draw lots to see who is to go and kill M. Thiers,”
cries a red-haired gamin.—“Idiot,” retorts his comrade, “they have no
arms!”—“Listen, and you will hear,” says the first, which is capital
advice, if I could but follow it. The pushing becomes intolerable, when
suddenly the bald head of an unfortunate citizen executes a fatal
plunge—I can breathe at last—and the following words reach me pretty
clearly:—“The Commune has decided that we shall choose five members who
are to have the honour of escorting you, and we are to draw
lots....”—“There! was I not right?” cries he of the carrotty hair; “I
knew they were going to draw lots!” A cleverly administered blow,
however, soon silences his elation, and we hear that the lots have been
drawn, and that five members are chosen to aid “this glorious, this
victorious act.” There seems more rhyme than reason in this. “An act
that will be read of in the future history of France and of humanity.”
Here the irrepressible breaks out again:—“Now I am sure they are going
to kill M. Thiers!” Whereupon his irritated adversary seizes him by the
collar, gives his head some well-applied blows against the curb-stone,
and then, pushing through the crowd, carries him off bodily. As for me,
my curiosity unsatisfied, I grow resigned—may the will of the Commune
be done—and I give it up. More hopeless mystification from the Citizen
Beslay, who regrets not having been chosen to aid in this “heroic act.”
He also alludes to the drawing of lots, and I begin after all to fancy
poor M. Thiers must be at the bottom of it all, but he
continues:—“Citizens, what can I say after the eloquent discourse of
Félix Pyat? You are about to interest yourselves in an act of
fraternity....” (then something horrible is surely contemplated) “in
hoisting your banner on the walls of our city, and mixing in our ranks
against our enemies of Versailles.” A sudden light breaks upon me. In
the meantime Citizen Beslay is embracing the nearest Freemason, while
another begs the honour of being the first to plant his banner, the
Persévérance, which was unfurled in 1790, on the ramparts. Here a band
plays the “Marseillaise,” horribly out of tune; a red flag is given to
the Freemasons, with an appropriate harangue; then the Citizen Térifocq
takes back the flag, with another harangue, and ends by waving it aloft
and roaring, “Now, citizens, no more words; to action!”
This is clear, the Freemasons are to hoist their banner on to the walls
of Paris side by side with the standard of the Commune; and who is
blind enough to imagine, that the shells and bullets, indiscriminately
homicidal, fratricidal, and infanticidal as they prove, are imbued with
tact sufficient to steer clear of the Freemasons’ banners, and injure
in their flight only those of the Commune? As the Versailles
projectiles have only one end in view, that of piercing both the
Parisians and their standards, as a national consequence if both
Parisians and standards are pierced, it is likewise most probable that
the Masonic banners will not remain unscathed in so dangerous a
neighbourhood. And if so, what will be the result? According to Citizen
Térifocq “the Freemasons of Paris will call to their aid the direst
vengeance; the Masons of all the provinces of France will follow their
example; everywhere the brothers will fraternise with the troops which
are marching on to help Paris. On the other hand, if the Versailles
gunners do not aim at the Masons, but only at the National Guards
(_sic!_), then the Masons will join the battalions in the field, and
encourage by their example the gallant soldiers, defenders of the
city.” This is all rather complicated—what can come of it? Escorted by
an ever-increasing crowd, we reach the Place de la Bastille. Several
discourses are spouted forth at the foot of the column, but the
combined effects of noise, dust, and fatigue have blunted my senses,
and I hear nothing; it seems, however to be about the same thing over
again, for the same acclamations of the crowd greet the same gestures
on the part of the orators.
We are off again down the Boulevards; the long procession, with its
waving banners and glittering signs, is hailed by the populace with
delight. Having reached the Place de la Concorde, I loiter behind.
Groups are stationed here and there. I go from one to another, trying
to gather what these open-air politicians think of all this Masonic
parade. Shortly fugitives are seen hurrying back from the Champs
Elysées, shouting, and gesticulating. “Horror! Abomination! They
respect nothing! Vengeance!” I hear a brother-mason has been killed by
a shell opposite the Rue du Colysée; that the white flag is riddled
with shot; that the Versailles rifles have singled out, killed and
wounded several masons.
In a very short time the terrible news, increased and exaggerated as it
spread, filled every quarter of Paris with consternation. I returned
home in a most perplexed state of mind, from which I could not arouse
myself until the arrival, towards evening, of a friend, a freemason,
and consequently well informed. This, it appears, is what took place.
“At the moment when the procession arrived in the Champs Elysées it
formed itself into several groups, each choosing a separate avenue or
street. One followed the Faubourg St. Honoré and the Avenue Friedland
as far as the Triumphal Arch, till it reached the Porte Maillot; a
second proceeded to the Porte des Ternes by the Avenue des Ternes; a
third to the Porte Dauphine by the Avenue Ührich. Not a single
freemason was wounded on the way, though shells fell on their passage
from time to time. The VV.·. of each lodge marched at the head,
displaying their masonic banners.
[Illustration: The Freemasons at the Ramparts. Gamins collecting
shells.]
“As soon as the white flag was seen flying from the bastion on the
right of the Porte Maillot, the Versailles batteries ceased firing. The
freemasons were then able to pass the ramparts and proceed towards
Neuilly. There they were received rather coldly by the colonel in
command of the detachment. The officers, including those in high
command, were violently indignant against Paris. But the soldiers
themselves seemed utterly weary of war.
“After some parleying the members of the manifestation obtained leave
to send a certain number of delegates to Versailles, in order to make a
second attempt at conciliation with the Government.”
Will this new effort be more successful than the preceding one? Will
the company of freemasons obtain what the Republican Union failed in
procuring? I would fain believe it, but cannot. The obstinacy of the
Versailles Assembly has become absolute deafness, though we must admit
that the freemasons’ way of trying to bring about reconciliation was
rather singular, somewhat like holding a knife at Monsieur Thiers’
throat and crying out, “Peace or your life!”