The fire is out, let us contemplate the ruins.[112] The Commune is
vanquished. Look at Paris, sad, motionless, laid waste. This is what we
have come to! Consternation is in every breast, solitude is in every
street. We feel no longer either anger or pity; we are resigned, broken
by emotion; we see processions of prisoners pass on their way to
Versailles, and we scarcely look at them; no one thinks of saying
either, “Wretches!” or “Poor fellows!” The soldiers themselves are very
silent. Although they, are the victors they are sad; they do not drink,
they do not sing. Paris might be a town that had been assaulted and
taken by dumb enemies; the irritation has worn itself off, and the
tears have not yet come. The tricolour flags which float from all the
windows surprise us; there does not seem any reason for rejoicing. Yet,
of late especially, the triumph of the Versaillais has been ardently
wished for by the greater portion of the population; but all are so
tired that they have not the energy to rejoice. Let us look back for a
moment. First the siege, with famine, separation and poverty; then the
insurrection of Montmartre, surprises, hesitations, cannonading night
and day, ceaseless musketry, mothers in tears, sons pursued, every
calamity has fallen on this miserable city. It has been like Rome under
Tiberius, then like Rome after the barbarians had overrun it. The
cannon balls have fallen upon Sybaris. So much emotion, so many horrors
have worn out the city; and then all this blood, this dreadful blood.
Corpses in the streets, corpses within the houses, corpses everywhere!
Of course they were terribly guilty, these men that were taken, that
were killed; they were horrible criminals, those women who poured
brandy into the glasses and petroleum on the houses! But, in the first
moment of victory, were there no mistakes? Were those that were shot
all guilty? Then the sight of these executions, however merited, was
cruelly painful. The innocent shuddered at the doom of justice. True,
Paris is quiet now, but it is the quiet of the battle-field on the
morrow of a victory; quiet as night, and as the tomb! An unsupportable
uneasiness oppresses us; shall we ever be able to shake off this
apathy, to pierce through this gloom? Paris, rent and bleeding, turns
with sadness from the past, and dares not yet raise her eyes to the
future!
[Illustration: The New Masters PROCLAMATION OVER PROCLAMATION PUBLIC
PROMENADES. CAMPS IN THE GARDENS OF THE LUXEMBOURG AND THE
TUILERIES—THE SOLDIERS LOCKED IN, AND THE PUBLIC LOCKED OUT. The damage
done to the pier was by a Prussian shell in Jan. 1871.]
[Illustration: Palace of the Luxembourg (streat Front). Now The Seat of
the Prefecture of Paris]