This morning I took a walk in the most innocent manner, having
committed no crime that I knew of. It was lovely weather, and the
streets looked gay, as they generally do when it is very bright, even
when the hearts of the people are most sad. I passed through the Rue
Saint-Honoré, the Palais Royal, and finally the Rue Richelieu. I beg
pardon for these details, but I am particularly careful in indicating
the road I took, as I wish the inhabitants of the places in question,
to bear witness that I did not steal in passing a single quartern loaf,
or appropriate the smallest article of jewellery. As I was about to
turn on to the boulevards, one of the four National Guards who were on
duty, I do not know what for, at the corner of the street, cried out,
“You can’t pass!” All right, thought I to myself; there is nothing
fresh I suppose, only the Commune does not want people to pass; of
course, it has right on its side. Thereupon I began to retrace my
steps. “You can’t pass,” calls out another sentinel, by the time I have
reached the other side of the street.
This is strange, the Commune cannot mean to limit my walk to a
melancholy pacing up and down between two opposite pavements. A
sergeant came up to me; I recognised him as a Spaniard, who during the
siege belonged to my company. “Why are you not in uniform?” he asked
me, with a roughness that I fancied was somewhat mitigated by the
remembrance of the many cigars I had given him, the nights we were on
guard during the siege. I understood in an instant what they wanted
with me, and replied unhesitatingly, “Because it is not my turn to be
on guard,”—“No, of course it’s not, it never is. You have been taking
your ease this long time, while others have been getting killed.” It
was evident this Spaniard had not taken the cigars I had given him, in
good part, and was now revenging himself.—“What do you want with me?” I
said; “let’s have done with this.” Instead of answering, he signed to
two Federals standing near, who immediately placed themselves one on
each side of me, and cried, “March!” I was perfectly agreeable,
although this walk was not exactly in the direction I had intended. On
the way I heard a woman say, “Poor young man I They have taken him in
the act.” I was conducted to the church of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, and
marched into the vestry, where about fifty _réfractaires_ were already
assembled.
Behind a deal table, on which were placed a small register, an inkstand
stuck in a great bung, and two quill pens, sat three young men, almost
boys, in uniform. You might have imagined them to be Minos, Aeacus, and
Rhadamanthus, at the age when they played at leap-frog. “Your name?”
said Rhadamanthus, addressing me. I did not think twice about it, but
gave them a name which has never been mine. Suddenly some one behind me
burst out laughing; I turned round and recognised an old friend, whom I
had not noticed among the other prisoners. “Your profession?” inquired
Minos.—“Prizefighter,” I answered, putting my arms akimbo and looking
as ferocious as possible, by way of keeping up the character I had
momentarily assumed. To the rest of the questions that were addressed
to me, I replied in the same satisfactory manner. When it was over,
Minos said to me, “That is enough; now go and sit down, and wait until
you are called.”—“Pardon me, my young friend, but I shall not go and
sit down, nor shall I wait a moment more.”—“Are you making fun of us?
We are transacting most serious business, our lives are at stake. Go
and sit down.”—“I have already had the honour to remark, my dear
Rhadamanthus, that I did not mean to sit down. Be kind enough to allow
me to depart instantly.”—“You ask _me_ to do this?”—“Yes! you!” I
shouted in a tremendous voice. The three judges looked at me in great
perplexity, and began whispering amongst themselves. A prize fighter,
by jingo! I thought the moment had come to strike a decisive blow, so I
pulled out of my pocket a little green card, which I desired them to
examine. Immediately Minos, Aeacus, and Rhadamanthus got up, bowed to
me most respectfully, and called out to two National Guards who were at
the door, “Allow the citizen to pass.”—“By-the-bye,” said I, pointing,
to my friend, “this gentleman is with me.”—“Allow both the citizens to
pass,” shouted the lads in chorus.—“This is capital,” cried my friend
as soon as we were well outside the door.—“How did you manage?”—“I have
a pass from the Central Committee.”—“In your own name?”—“No, I bought
it of the widow of a Federal; who was on very good terms with Citizen
Félix Pyat.”—“Why, it is just like a romance.”—“Yes, but a romance that
allows me to live pretty safely in the midst of this strange reality.
Anyhow, I think we had better look out for other lodgings.”
[Illustration: House of M. Thiers, Palace Saint-Georges.]