Armed with his pass Cuthbert started for the city at ten o'clock next
morning. A dense pall of smoke hung over Paris. On the south side of the
river the conflict was still raging, as it was also on the north and
east, but the insurgents' shells were no longer bursting up the Champs
Elysées and the firing had ceased at the Place de la Concorde. It was
evident that the insurgents, after performing their work of destruction,
had evacuated their position there. On reaching the bottom of the Champs
Elysées he found that a breach had been made in the barricade and that a
considerable number of troops were bivouacked in the Place de la
Concorde itself.
The fire-engines from Versailles, St. Denis, and other places round were
already at work, but their efforts seemed futile indeed in face of the
tremendous bodies of fire with which they had to cope. Just as Cuthbert,
after passing through the breach in the barricade, on the presentation
of his pass to the sentries, arrived at the end of the Rue Rivoli, a
mounted officer dashed up to the two engines at work opposite the
building that had first been fired, and said--
"You can do no good here. Take your engines to the courtyard of the
Tuileries and aid the troops in preventing the fire from spreading to
the Louvre. That is the only place where there is any hope of doing
good. Now, monsieur," he said to Cuthbert, "You must fall in and aid the
Pompiers. The orders are that all able-bodied men are to help in
extinguishing the fire."
Cuthbert was glad to be of use, and joining the firemen ran along with
the engines down the Rue Rivoli and turned in with them into the
courtyard of the palace. The western end, containing the State
apartments, was a mass of fire from end to end, and the flames were
creeping along both wings towards the Louvre. In the palace itself a
battalion of infantry were at work. Some were throwing furniture,
pictures and curtains through the window into the courtyard; others were
hacking off doors and tearing up floors, while strong parties were
engaged on the roofs in stripping off the slates and tearing down the
beams and linings.
Other engines presently arrived, for telegrams had been sent off soon
after the fires broke out to all the principal towns of France, and even
to London, asking for engines and men to work them, and those from
Amiens, Lille, and Rouen had already reached Paris by train.
After working for three hours Cuthbert showed his pass to the officer
and was permitted to pass on, a large number of citizens being by this
time available for the work, having been fetched from all the suburbs
occupied by the troops. Before going very much farther Cuthbert was
stopped by a line of sentries across the street.
"You cannot pass here," the officer in charge said, as Cuthbert produced
his permit, "the island is still in the hands of the Communists, and the
fire from their barricade across the bridge sweeps the street twenty
yards farther on, and it would be certain death to show yourself there;
besides, they are still in force beyond the Hôtel de Ville. You can, of
course, work round by the left, but I should strongly advise you to go
no farther. There is desperate fighting going on in the Place de la
Bastille. The insurgent batteries are shelling the Boulevards hotly,
and, worst of all, you are liable to be shot from the upper windows and
cellars. There are scores of those scoundrels still in the houses; there
has been no time to unearth them yet, and a good many men have been
killed by their fire."
"Thank you, sir. I will take your advice," Cuthbert said.
He found, indeed, that there was no seeing anything that was going on in
the way of fighting without running great risks, and he accordingly made
his way back to the Trocadero. Here he could see that a number of fires
had broken out at various points since morning, even in the part of the
town occupied by the troops; and though some of these might be caused by
the Communists' shell it was more probable that they were the work of
the incendiary. He had, indeed, heard from some of the citizens to whom
he had spoken while at work at the pumps, that orders had been issued
that all gratings and windows giving light to cellars, should be closed
by wet sacks being piled against them, and should then be covered
thickly with earth, as several women had been caught in the act of
pouring petroleum into the cellars and then dropping lighted matches
down upon it.
These wretches had been shot instantly, but the fresh fires continually
springing up showed that the work was still going on.
It was strangely silent in the streets. With the exception of the
sentries at every corner there were few persons indeed abroad. Many were
looking from the windows, but few, indeed, ventured out. They knew not
what orders had been given to the sentries and feared arrest were they
to stir beyond their doors. Moreover, the occasional crash of a shell
from the insurgent batteries, the whistling of bullets, and the frequent
discharge of musket shots still kept up by groups of desperate
Communists who had taken refuge in the houses, was sufficient alone to
deter them from making any attempt to learn what was going on. But in
the absence of footfalls in the street and of the sound of vehicles, the
distant noises were strangely audible. The rustle of the flames at the
Hôtel de Ville and the great fires across the river, the crash of the
falling roofs and walls, the incessant rattle of distant musketry, and
the boom of cannon, formed a weird contrast to the silence that
prevailed in the quarter. Cuthbert felt that he breathed more freely
when he issued out again into the Champs Elysées.
The next day he did not go down. The advance continued, but progress was
slow. On the following morning Paris was horrified by the news published
in the papers at Versailles that statements of prisoners left no doubt
that the Archbishop of Paris and many other priests, in all a hundred
persons, had been massacred in cold blood, the methods of the first
revolution being closely followed, and the prisoners made to walk out
one by one from the gate of the prison, and being shot down as they
issued out. Another statement of a scarcely less appalling nature was
that the female fiends of the Commune not only continued their work of
destruction by fire, but were poisoning the troops. Several instances of
this occurred. In one case ten men were poisoned by one of these furies,
who came out as they passed, and expressing joy at the defeat of the
Commune, offered them wine. They drank it unsuspectingly, and within an
hour were all dead. Orders, were consequently issued that no soldier
should on any account accept drink or food of any kind offered them by
women.
"This horrible massacre of the Archbishop and the other prisoners is
next door to madness," Cuthbert said, as he read the account at
breakfast. "The Communists could have no personal feeling of hostility
against their victims, indeed, the Archbishop was, I know, most popular.
Upon the other hand it seals the fate of thousands. The fury excited by
such a deed will be so great that the troops will refuse to give quarter
and the prisoners taken will have to suffer to the utmost for the crime
committed by perhaps a handful of desperate wretches. The omnibuses
began to run yesterday from Sèvres, and I propose, Mary, that we go over
to Versailles to-day and get out of sound of the firing. They say there
are fully 20,000 prisoners there."
"I don't want to see the prisoners," Mary said, with a shudder. "I
should like to go to Versailles, but let us keep away from horrors."
And so for a day they left the sound of battle behind, wandered together
through the Park at Versailles, and carefully abstained from all
allusion to the public events of the past six months. The next day
Cuthbert returned to Paris and made his way down to the Place de la
Bastille, where, for the sum of half a Napoleon, he obtained permission
to ascend to the upper window of a house. The scene here was terrible.
On the side on which he was standing a great drapery establishment,
known as the Bon Marché, embracing a dozen houses, was in flames. In the
square itself three batteries of artillery belonging to Ladmirault's
Division, were sending their shell up the various streets debouching on
the place.
Most of the houses on the opposite side were in flames. The insurgent
batteries on the Buttes de Chaumont were replying to the guns of the
troops. The infantry were already pressing their way upwards. Some of
the barricades were so desperately defended that the method by which
alone the troops on the south side had been able to capture these
defences, was adopted; the troops taking possession of the houses and
breaking their way with crow-bar and pick-axe through the party wall,
and so, step by step, making their way along under cover until they
approached the barricades, which they were then able to make untenable
by their musketry fire from the windows. Cuthbert remained here for an
hour or two, and then making a detour came out on the Boulevards higher
up.
The Theatre of Porte St. Martin was in flames, as were many other
buildings. A large number of troops with piled arms occupied the centre
of the street, taking their turn to rest before they relieved their
comrades in the work of assault. Presently he saw down a side street a
party of soldiers with some prisoners. He turned down to see what was
going on. The officer in command of the party came up to him.
"Monsieur has doubtless a pass," he said, politely.
Cuthbert produced it.
"Ah, you are English, monsieur. It is well for you that your country
does not breed such wretches as these. Every one of them has been caught
in the course of the last hour in the act of setting houses alight. They
are now to be shot."
"It is an unpleasant duty, monsieur," Cuthbert said.
"It would be horrible at any other time," the officer said. "But we
cannot consider these creatures as human beings. They are wild beasts
and I verily believe the women are worse than the men. There is only one
I would spare, though she is the worst of all. At every barricade where
the fighting has been fiercest for the last four days she has been
conspicuous. The troops got to know her by her red cap and dress. She
has been seen to shoot down men who attempted to retire, and she has led
a charmed life or she would have been killed a thousand times. When she
was taken she had on an old dress over her red one, and a hideous bonnet
in place of the cap. She was caught just as she had dropped a lighted
match into a cellar. The flames flashed up at once, and two soldiers
near ran up and arrested her. She stabbed one, but the other broke her
wrist with a blow from the butt of his musket.
"Then came a curious thing. A man who had been standing in a doorway on
the opposite side of the street ran out and declared that he was a
sharer in her crime. His air was that of a madman, and the men would
have pushed him away, but he exclaimed, 'I am Arnold Dampierre, one of
the leaders of the Commune. This is my wife.' Then the woman said, 'The
man is mad. I have never seen him before. I know Arnold Dampierre
everyone knows him. He does not resemble this man, whose proper place is
a lunatic asylum.' So they contended, and both were brought before the
drumhead Court Martial.
"The man had so wild an air that we should not have believed his story,
but on his being searched his American passport was found upon him. Then
the woman threw herself into his arms. 'We will die together then!' she
said. 'I would have saved you if you would have let me.' Then she turned
to us. 'Yes, I am guilty. I have fought against you on the barricades,'
and she tore off her outer dress and bonnet. 'I have kindled twenty
fires, but in this I am guilty alone. He stood by me on the barricades,
but he would have nothing to do with firing houses. But I am a Parisian.
I am the daughter of Martin Dufaure, who was killed an hour since, and
my duty was to the Commune first, and to my husband afterwards. I hate
and despise you slaves of tyrants. You have conquered us but we have
taught a lesson to the men who fatten on our suffering.'
"Of course they were both ordered to be shot. I have given them all five
minutes, but the time is up. Range them by the wall, men," he said,
turning to the soldiers.
Cuthbert glanced for a moment and then turned away. The other women were
mostly old, or at least middle-aged, and they stood scowling at the
soldiers, and some of them pouring out the foulest imprecations upon
them.
Minette stood in the centre of the line conspicuous by her red dress.
One hand grasped that of Arnold, who was gazing upon her as if oblivious
to all else. Her head was held erect and she looked at her executioners
with an air of proud defiance.
Cuthbert hurried away, filled with an intense feeling of pity and
regret. He heard Minette cry in a loud clear voice, "Vive la Commune!"
Then there was a sharp volley and all was over, and a minute later the
soldiers passed him on the way to join their comrades.
He stood for a time at the corner of the street irresolute. He had seen
scores of dead in the streets. He had thought he could see nothing worse
than he had witnessed, but he felt that he could not go back, as he had
first thought of doing, to the scene of execution. Comrades had fallen
by his side in the fight at Champigny, but he had not felt for them as
for this comrade who lay behind him, or for the girl who, with her
talents, might have had a bright future before her had she been thrown
amid other surroundings. He wondered whether he could obtain their
bodies for burial.
It did not seem to him possible. Vehicles could not be obtained at any
price. The very request would seem suspicious, and suspicion at that
hour was enough to condemn a man unheard. The difficulties in the way
would be enormous. Indeed, it would matter nothing. Arnold and Minette.
They had fallen together and would lie together in one of the great
common graves in which the dead would be buried. It would be little
short of a mockery to have the burial service read over her, and had
Arnold been consulted he would have preferred to lie beside her to being
laid in a grave apart.
So after a pause of five minutes Cuthbert moved away without venturing a
single look back at the group huddled down by the wall, but walked away
feeling crushed and overwhelmed by the untimely fate that had befallen
two persons of whom he had seen so much during the past year, and
feeling as feeble as he did when he first arose from his bed in the
American ambulance.
Several times he had to pause and lean against the wall, and when he
had passed the barricade at the Place de la Concorde, towards which he
had almost instinctively made his way, he sat down on one of the
deserted seats in the Champs Elysées, and burst into tears. It had
hardly come upon him as a surprise, for he had felt that, conspicuous as
he had made himself, the chances of Arnold making his escape were small
indeed, especially as Minette would cling to the Commune until the very
end. Still it never struck him as being possible that he himself might
witness the end. He had thought that the same obscurity that hung over
the fate of most of the other leaders of the Commune would envelop that
of Arnold. He would have fallen, but how or when would never have been
known. He would simply have disappeared. Rumor would have mentioned his
name for a few days, the rumor that was already busy with the fate of
other leaders of the insurrection, and he had never dreamt that it would
be brought home to him in this fashion. After a time Cuthbert pulled
himself together, waited until a fiacre came along for on this side of
Paris things were gradually regaining their usual aspect and then drove
back to Passy.
"What is the matter, Cuthbert?" Mary exclaimed as she caught sight of
his face. "Are you ill? You look terribly pale and quite unlike
yourself. What has happened?"
"I have had a shock, Mary," he said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "a
very bad shock. Don't ask me about it just at present. Please get me
some brandy. I have never fainted in my life, but I feel very near it
just at present."
Mary hurried away to Madame Michaud, who now always discreetly withdrew
as soon as Cuthbert was announced, and returned with some cognac, a
tumbler, and water. She poured him out a glass that seemed to herself to
be almost alarmingly strong, but he drank it at a draught.
"Don't be alarmed, Mary," he said, with a smile, at the consternation in
her face. "You won't often see me do this, and I can assure you that
spirit-drinking is not an habitual vice with me, but I really wanted it
then. They are still fighting fiercely from Porte St. Martin down to the
Place de la Bastille. I believe all resistance has been crushed out on
the south side of the river, and in a couple of days the whole thing
will be over."
"Fancy a week of fighting. It is awful to think of, Cuthbert. How many
do you suppose will be killed altogether?"
"I have not the least idea, and I don't suppose it will ever be known;
but if the resistance is as desperate for the next two days as it has
been for the last three, I should say fully 20,000 will have fallen,
besides those taken with arms in their hands, tried, and shot. I hear
there are two general court-martials sitting permanently, and that seven
or eight hundred prisoners are shot every day. Then there are some
eighteen or twenty thousand at Versailles, but as these will not be
tried until the fighting is over, and men's blood cooled down somewhat,
no doubt much greater leniency will be shown."
"There is a terrible cloud of smoke over Paris, still."
"Yes, fresh fires are constantly breaking out. The Louvre is safe, and
the firemen have checked the spread of the flames at the public
buildings, but there are streets where every house is alight for a
distance of a quarter of a mile; and yet, except at these spots, the
damage is less than you would expect considering how fierce a battle has
been raging. There are streets where scarce a bullet mark is to be seen
on the walls or a broken pane of glass in a window, while at points
where barricades have been defended, the scene of ruin is terrible."
Two days later a strange stillness succeeded the din and uproar that had
for a week gone on without cessation night and day. Paris was conquered,
the Commune was stamped out, its chiefs dead or fugitives, its rank and
file slaughtered, or prisoners awaiting trial. France breathed again. It
had been saved from a danger infinitely more terrible than a German
occupation. In a short time the hotels were opened and visitors began to
pour into Paris to gaze at the work of destruction wrought by the orgie
of the Commune. One day Cuthbert, who was now installed in his own
lodging, went up to Passy.
"I hear that the English Church is to be open to-morrow, Mary. I called
on the clergyman to-day and told him that I should probably require his
services next week."
"Cuthbert!" Mary exclaimed in surprise, "you cannot mean----" and a
flush of color completed the sentence.
"Yes, that is just what I do mean, Mary. You have kept me waiting three
years and I am not going to wait a day longer."
"I have given up much of my belief in women's rights, Cuthbert, but
there are some I still maintain, and one of these is that a woman has a
right to be consulted in a matter of this kind."
"Quite so, dear, and therefore I have left the matter open, and I will
leave you to fix the day and you can choose any one you like from Monday
to Saturday next week."
"But I must have time, Cuthbert," she said, desperately. "I have, of
course, things to get."
"The things that you have will do perfectly well, my dear. Besides, many
of the shops are open and you can get anything you want. As for a dress
for the occasion, if you choose to fix Saturday you will have twelve
days, which is twice as long as necessary. Putting aside my objection to
waiting any longer I want to get away from here to some quiet place
where we can forget the events of the past month, and get our nerves
into working order again. If there is any reason that you can declare
that you honestly believe to be true and valid of course I must give
way, but if not let it be Saturday week. That is right. I see that you
have nothing to urge," and a fortnight later they were settled in a
châlet high up above the Lake of Lucerne.
René and Pierre acted as Cuthbert's witnesses at the marriage. Pierre
had escaped before the fighting began. René had done service with the
National Guard until the news came that the troops had entered Paris,
then he had gone to M. Goudé's who had hidden him and seven or eight of
the other students in an attic. When the troops approached, they had
taken refuge on the roof and had remained there until the tide of battle
had swept past, and they then descended, and arraying themselves in
their painting blouses had taken up their work at the studio; and when,
three days later, the general search for Communists began, they were
found working so diligently that none suspected that they had ever fired
a shot in the ranks of the Communists.
When the salon was opened, long after its usual time, Cuthbert's
pictures were well hung and obtained an amount of praise that more than
satisfied him, although his wife insisted that they were not half as
warm as the pictures deserved. It was not until they had been for some
time in Switzerland that Mary had learned the details of the deaths of
Arnold and Minette Dampierre. That both were dead she knew, for when she
mentioned their names for the first time after the close of the
fighting, Cuthbert told her that he had learned that both were dead, and
begged her to ask no question concerning them until he himself returned
to the subject.
Mary wrote to her mother a day or two after she was married giving her
the news. An answer was received from Scarborough expressing great
satisfaction, and saying that it was probable that the family would
settle where they were. Neither Cuthbert nor his wife liked the thought
of returning to England, and for the next five years remained abroad.
After spending a few months at Dresden, Munich, Rome, and Florence, they
settled at Venice. Cuthbert continued to work hard, and each year two or
three of his pictures hung on the walls of the Academy and attracted
much attention, and were sold at excellent prices. All his earnings in
this way and the entire income of Fairclose were put aside to pay off
the mortgage, and when, at the end of the five years, Cuthbert, his
wife, and two children returned to Fairclose, the greater portion of the
mortgage had been paid off, and three years later it was entirely wiped
out.
Although very warmly received by the county, Cuthbert retained his
preference for London, and during the winter six months always moved up
to a house in the artists' quarter at St. John's Wood. Although he no
longer painted as if compelled to do so for a living, he worked
regularly and steadily while in town, and being able to take his time in
carrying out his conceptions, his pictures increased in value and he
took a place in the front rank of artists, and some fifteen years after
the siege of Paris was elected Academician. Before this he had sold
Fairclose and built himself a house in Holland Park, where he was able
to indulge his love for art to the fullest extent.
Of his wife's family he saw but little. Mary's sisters both married
before he and his wife returned from abroad. Mary went down occasionally
to Scarborough, and stayed with her father and mother, but Mr. Brander
steadily refused all invitations to visit them in London, and until his
death, fifteen years later, never left Scarborough, where he became a
very popular man, although no persuasions could induce him to take a
part in any of its institutions or public affairs.
Cuthbert has often declared that the most fortunate event in his life
was that he was a besieged resident in Paris through its two sieges. As
for Mary she has been heard to declare that she has no patience,
whatever, with the persons who frequent platforms and talk about women's
rights.
Not far from the spot in la Chaise where the pits in which countless
numbers of Communists were buried are situated, stands a small marble
cross, on whose pedestal are inscribed the words:--"To the memory of
Arnold Dampierre and his wife, Minette, whose bodies rest near this
place."
THE END.
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Boston, Mass._
"In many ways the most remarkable historical novel of the Civil
War."--_Home Journal, Boston, Mass._
"The interview with Lincoln is one of the finest bits of dialogue in a
modern book."--_Chicago Herald._
"Will probably be the most popular and saleable novel since Robert
Elsmere."--_Republican._
"One of the most instructive and fascinating writers of our
time."--_Courier-Journal, Louisville._
"Is calculated to command as wide attention as Judge Tourgée's 'Fool's
Errand.'"--_N. Y. Evening Telegram._
"Has enriched American literature."--_Item, Philadelphia._
"Remarkably true to history."--_Inter-Ocean, Chicago_
"Entitled to a place with standard histories of the War."--_Atlanta
Journal._
NEW YORK: R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
End of Project Gutenberg's A Girl of the Commune, by George Alfred Henty