The hours and the days pass and resemble each other horribly. To write
the history of the calamities is not yet possible. Each one sees but a
corner of the picture, and the narratives that are collected are vague
and contradictory; it appears certain now that the insurrection is
approaching the end. It is said that the fort of Montrouge is taken;
but it still hurls its shells upon Paris. Several have just fallen in
the quarter of the Banque. There is fighting still at the Halles, at
the Luxembourg, and at the Porte Saint-Martin. Neither the cannonading
nor the fusillade has ceased, and our ears have become accustomed to
the continued roar. But, in spite of the barbarous heroism of the
Federals, the force of their resistance is being exhausted. What has
become of the chiefs?
We continue to note down the incidents as they reach us.
It is said that Assy has been taken, close to the New Opera House. He
was going the nightly rounds, almost alone—“Who’s there!” cried a
sentinel. Assy, thinking the man was a Federal, replied, “You should
have challenged me sooner.” In an instant he was surrounded, disarmed,
and carried off. However, it is a very unlikely tale; it is most
improbable that Assy should not know that the New Opera was in the
hands of the Versaillais.
They say that Delescluze has fled, that Dombrowski has died[110] in an
ambulance, and that Millière is a prisoner at Saint-Denis. But these
are merely rumours, and I am utterly ignorant as to their worth. The
only thing certain is that the search is being carried on with vigour.
Close by the smoking ruins of what was once the Hôtel de Ville they
caught Citizen Ferraigu, inspector of the barricades; he confessed to
having received from the Committee of Public Safety particular orders
to burn down the shop of the Bon-Diable. Had one of these committeemen
been an assistant there, and did he owe his former master a grudge?
Ferraigu had a bottle of petroleum in his pocket; he was shot. I am
told that at the Théâtre du Châtelet a court-martial has been
established on the stage. The Federals are brought up twenty at a time,
judged, and condemned, they are then marched out on to the Place, with
their hands tied behind their backs. A mitrailleuse, standing a hundred
yards off, mows them down like grass. It is an expeditious contrivance.
In a yard, in the Rue Saint-Denis, is a stable filled with corpses; I
have myself seen them there. The Porte Saint-Martin Theatre is quite
destroyed, a guard is stationed near. This morning three _pétroleuses_
were shot there, the bodies are still lying on the boulevards. I have
just seen two insurgents walking between four soldiers; one an old man,
the other almost a lad. I heard the elder one say to the younger, “All
our misery comes of our having arms. In ’48 we had none, so we took
those of the soldiers, and then they were without. Now there is more
killing and less business done.” A few minutes after the little
procession passed up the Rue d’Hauteville, and I heard the reports of
two rifles. Oh! what horrible days! I feel a prey to the deepest
dejection—if it were but over! The town looks wretched; even where the
fighting is not going on, the houses are closed and the streets
deserted, except here and there: a lonely passenger hurrying along, or
a wretched prisoner marching between four soldiers. It is all very
dreadful! In the streets where the battle is still raging the shutters
are not closed; as soon as the soldiers get into a new quarter of the
town they cry out, “Shut the windows, open the shutters.” The reason
for this is, that the open barred outer shutters, or _persiennes_, form
a capital screen through which aim maybe taken with a gun. As for me,
in the midst of this horror and sadness, I feel like a madman in the
night. The rumour that the hostages have been shot at Mazas gains
ground.[111] I am told that the Archbishop, the Abbé Degueiry, and
Chaudey have all been assassinated. It was Bigault who ordered these
executions. He has since been taken, and fell, crying “Down with
murderers!” This reminds one of Dumollard, the assassin, calling the
jurymen “Canaille!” Millière is said to have been shot in the Place du
Panthéon. When they told him to kneel down he drew himself up to his
full height, his eyes flashing defiance. Strange caprice of nature, to
make these scoundrels brave.
[Illustration: Theatre Porte St Martin. Sensation Drama out
sensationed]
[Illustration: Cell of the Archbisop in The Prison Of La Roquette.]
[Illustration: Court-yard of Prison Of La Roquette, Where the Hostages]
were shot.
In the meantime, the Commune is in its death throes. Like the dragon of
fairy lore, it dies, vomiting flames. La Villette is on fire, houses
are burning at Belleville and on the Buttes-Chaumont. The resistance is
concentrated on one side at Père la Chaise, and on the other at the
Mont-Parnasse cemetery. The insurrection was mistress of the whole of
Paris, and then the army came stretching its long arms from the Arc de
Triomphe to Belleville, from the Champ-de-Mars to the Panthéon. Trying
hard to burst these bonds, tightly surrounded, now resisting, now
flying, the _émeute_ has at last retreated. It is over there now, in
two cemeteries; it watches from behind tombstones; it rests the barrels
of its rifles on marble crosses, and erects a battery on a sepulchre.
The shells of the Versaillais fall in the sacred enclosure, plough up
the earth, and unbury the dead. Something round rolled along a pathway,
the combatants thought it was a shell; it was a skull! What must these
men feel who are killing and being killed in the cemetery! To die among
the dead seems horrible. But they never give it a thought; the bloody
thirst for destruction which possesses them allows them only to think
of one thing, of killing! Some of them are gay, they are brave, these
men. That makes it only the more dreadful; these wretches are heroic!
Behind the barricades there have been instances of the most splendid
valour. A man at the Porte Saint-Martin, holding a red flag in his
hand, was standing, heedless of danger, on a pile of stones. The balls
showered around him, while he leant carelessly against an empty barrel
which stood behind.—“Lazy fellow,” cried a comrade—“No,” said he, “I am
only leaning that I may not fall when I die.” Such are these men; they
are robbers, incendiaries, assassins, but they are fearless of death.
They have only that one good quality. They smile and they die. The
vivandières allow themselves to be kissed behind the tombstones; the
wounded men drink with their comrades, and throw wine on their wounds,
saying, “Let us drink to the last.” And yet, in an hour perhaps, the
soldiers will fight their way into the cemeteries, which their balls
reach already, they too mad with rage; then the horrible bayonet
fighting will commence, man against man among the tombs, flying over
the mounds, desecrating the monuments, everything that imagination can
conjure up of most profane and terrible—a battle in a cemetery!
[Illustration: My Neighbour ‘en face’; business carries on as usual—My
neighbour next door: who thinks himself fortunate]