It is seven in the evening, the circulation has become almost
impossible. The streets are lined with patrols, and the regiments of
the Line camp upon the outer boulevards. They dine, smoke, and bivouac,
and drink with the citizens on the doorsteps of their houses. In the
distance is heard the storm of sounds which tells of the despairing
resistance of Belleville, and along the foot of the houses are seen
square white patches, showing the walled-up cellars, every hole and
crevice being plastered up to prevent insertion of the diabolical
liquid—walled up against _pétroleurs_ and pétroleuses, strings of
prisoners, among whom are furious women and poor children, their hands
tied behind their backs, pass along the boulevards towards Neuilly.
Night comes on, not a lamp is lighted, and the streets become deserted
as by degrees the sky becomes darker. At nine o’clock the solitude is
almost absolute. The sound of a musket striking the pavement is heard
from time to time; a sentinel passes here and there, and the lights in
the houses grow more and more rare.