With three friends I stood upon the roof of a house near the new opera,
watching what was passing around. The spectacle was such, that horror
paralyses every other sentiment, even that of self-preservation.
Consternation sits encircled by a blazing atmosphere of terror! The
Hôtel de Ville is in flames; the smoke, at times a deep red, envelops
all, so that it is impossible to distinguish more than the outlines of
immense walls; the wind brings, in heavy gusts, a deadly odour—of burnt
flesh, perhaps—which turns the heart sick and the brain giddy. On the
other side the Tuileries, the Légion d’Honneur, the Ministère de la
Guerre, and the Ministère des Finances are flaming still, like five
great craters of a gigantic volcano! It is the eruption of Paris!
Alone, a great black mass detaches itself from the universal
conflagration, it is the Tour Saint-Jacques, standing out like a
malediction.
One of the three friends, who are with me on the roof of the house, was
able, about an hour ago, to get near the Hôtel de Ville. He related to
me what follows:—
“At the moment of my arrival, the flames burst forth from all the
windows of the Hôtel de Ville, and the most intense terror seized upon
all the inhabitants blocked up in the surrounding quarters, for a
terrible rumour is spread; it is said that more than fifty thousand
pounds of powder is contained in the subterranean vaults. The
incendiaries must have poured the demoniacal liquid in rivers through
the great halls, down the great staircases, from the very garrets, to
envelop even the Salle du Trône. The great fire throws a blood-red
glare over the city, and on the quays of the Institute. Night is so
like day that a letter may be read in the street. Is this the end of
the famous capital of France? Have the infamous fiends of the committee
for public safety ordered, in their cowardly death-agony, that this
should be the end? Yes, it is the ruin of all that was grand, generous,
radiant, and consolatory for our country that they have decided to
consummate, with a chorus of hellish laughter, in which terror and
ferocity struggle with brutal degradation.
“In the midst of this horror, confused rumours are circulated. It
is said that the heat will penetrate to the cellars and cause an
explosion of whole quarters. Then what will become of the
inhabitants, and the riches that they have accumulated? The heat is
overwhelming between the Tuileries and the Hôtel de Ville—that is,
over the space of about a mile. The two barricades of the Rue de
Rivoli and of the Rue de la Coutellerie, near which are the offices
of the municipal services—the lighting of the city, the octroi,
waters, sewers, etc.,—will not be taken until too late, in spite of
the energy with which the army attacks them. It is feared that the
flame will reach the neighbourhood of the great warehouses, so
thickly do the burning flakes fall and scatter destruction. The
barricades of the quays are still intact, it will be another hour
yet before they are taken. The firemen are there furiously at work,
but their efforts are insufficient! It would take tons of ammonia
to slake the fury of the petroleum which flows like hot lava upon
the place from the Hôtel de Ville, and the horrible reflection
reddens the waters of the Seine, so that the current of the river
seems to flow with blood, which stains the stones as it dashes
against the arches of the bridge!”
These scenes are being pictured to me as I gaze upon the terrible
conflagration, and all that is told me I seem to see. An irresistible
longing to be near seizes me. I am under the power of an invincible
attraction. I lean forward, my arms outstretched; I run a great risk of
falling, but what matters? The sight of these almost sublime horrors
has burnt itself into my very brain!