PARIS ON THE EVE OF DEATH.
The Paris of the Commune has but three days more to live; let us engrave
upon our memory her luminous physiognomy.
He who has breathed in thy life that fiery fever of contemporaneous
history, who has panted on thy boulevards and wept in thy faubourgs, who
has sung to the morns of thy revolutions and a few weeks after bathed
his hands in powder behind thy barricades, he who can hear from beneath
thy stones the voices of the martyrs of sublime ideas and read in every
one of thy streets a date of human progress, even he does less justice
to thy original grandeur than the stranger, though a Philistine, who
came to glance at thee during the days of the Commune. The attraction of
rebellious Paris was so strong that men hurried thither from America to
behold this spectacle unprecedented in the world's history--the greatest
town of the European continent in the hands of the proletarians. Even
the pusillanimous were drawn towards her.
In the first days of May one of our friends arrived--one of the most
timid men of the timid provinces. His kith and kin had escorted him on
his departure, tears in their eyes, as though he were descending into
the infernal regions. He said to us, "What is true in all the rumours
bruited about?" "Well, come and search all the recesses of the den."
We set out from the Bastille. Street-arabs cry Rochefort's _Mot
d'Ordre_, the _Pere Duchene_, Jules Valles' _Cri du Peuple_, Felix
Pyat's _Vengeur_, _La Commune_, _L'Affranchi_, _Le Pilori des
Mouchards_. The _Officiel_ is little asked for; the journalists of the
Council stifle it by their competition. The _Cri du Peuple_ has a
circulation of 100,000. It is the earliest out; it rises with
chanticleer. If we have an article by Valles this morning, we are in
luck; but in his stead, Pierre Denis, with his autonomy _a outrance_,
makes himself too often heard. Only buy the _Pere Duchene_ once, though
its circulation is more than 60,000. Take Felix Pyat's article in the
_Vengeur_ as a fine example of literary intoxication. The bourgeoisie
has no better helpmates than these vain and ignorant claptrap-mongers.
Here is the doctrinaire journal _La Commune_, in which Milliere
sometimes writes, and in which Georges Duchene takes the young men and
the old of the Hotel-de-Ville to task with a severity which would better
fit another character than his. Do not forget the _Mot d'Ordre_,
whatever the romanticists may say. It was one of the first to support
the Revolution of the 18th March, and darted terrible arrows at the
Versaillese.
In the kiosques are the caricatures. Thiers, Picard, and Jules Favre
figure as the Three Graces, clasping each other's paunches. This fine
fish, the _maquereau_, with the blue-green scales, who is making up a
bed with an imperial crown, is the Marquis de Gallifet. _L'Avenir_, the
mouthpiece of the _Ligue_. _Le Siecle_, become very hostile since the
arrest of Gustave Chaudey; and _La Verite_, the Yankee Portalis's paper,
are piled up, melancholy and intact. Many reactionist papers have been
suppressed by the prefecture, but for all that are not dead; for a lad,
without any mystery about him, offers them to us.
Read, search, find one appeal to murder, to pillage, a single cruel line
in all these Communard journals excited by the battle, and then compare
them with the Versaillese papers, demanding fusillades _en masse_ as
soon as the troops shall have vanquished Paris.
Let us follow those catafalques that are being taken up the Rue de la
Roquette, and enter with them into the Pere Lachaise cemetery. All those
who die for Paris are entombed with obsequies in the great
resting-place. The Commune has claimed the honour of paying for their
funerals; its red flag blazes from the four corners of the hearse,
followed by some comrades of the battalion, while a few passers-by
always join the procession. This is a wife accompanying her dead
husband. A member of the Council follows the coffin; at the grave he
speaks not of regrets, but of hope, of vengeance. The widow presses her
children in her arms, and says to them, "Remember and cry with me, 'Vive
la Republique! Vive la Commune!'"[176]
On retracing our steps, we pass by the mairie of the eleventh
arrondissement. It is hung with black, the mourning of the last
Imperialist plebiscite, of which the people of Paris was innocent and
became the victim. We cross the Place de la Bastille, gay, animated by
the ginger-bread fair. Paris will yield nothing to the cannon; she has
even prolonged the annual fair for a week. The swings move to and fro,
the wheels-of-fortune turn, booth-keepers cry their sixpenny wares, the
mountebanks allure spectators, and promise half their receipts to the
wounded.
We go down these great boulevards. A crowd pushes against the Napoleon
Circus, where 5,000 people are gathered, filling it from the area to the
ceiling. Small flags, each one bearing the name of a department, urge
the provincials to group themselves. This meeting has been called by
some merchants, who propose to the citizens of the departments to send
delegates to their respective deputies, in the belief that the latter
may be brought round and peace gained by explanations. A tall, thin man,
with a sad face, asks for permission to address the people, and gets
upon the platform. It is Milliere, whom the crowd cheers. "Peace," said
he, "we all wish for it, citizens. But who, then, has commenced the war?
Who attacked Paris on the 18th March? M. Thiers. Who attacked her on the
2nd April? M. Thiers. Who has spoken of conciliation, multiplied
attempts at peace? Paris. Who has always repulsed them? M. Thiers.
Conciliation! M. Dufaure has said, 'Why, insurrection is less criminal.'
And that which neither the Freemasons, nor the leagues, nor the
addresses, nor the municipal councillors of the provinces could do, you
expect to get from a deputation chosen from amongst the Parisians! See,
without knowing it, you are enervating the defence. No, no more
deputations, but active correspondence with the provinces--there lies
salvation!" "This, then, is that energumen whom we are so frightened of
in the provinces!" exclaimed our friend. "Yes, and these thousands of
men of all conditions, who in common seek for peace, consult each other,
answer courteously, these are the demented people, the handful of
bandits who hold the capital."
Before the Prince Eugene Barracks we notice the 1,500 soldiers who
remained in Paris on the 18th March, and whom the Commune entertains
without asking them for any service. At the top of the Boulevard Magenta
we visit the numerous skeletons of the St. Laurent Church, arranged in
the same order they were found in, without coffins or winding-sheets.
Are not interments in churches formally prohibited? Some, however, Notre
Dame des Victoires especially, abound in skeletons. Is it not the duty
of the Commune to expose these illegal proceedings, which are perhaps
crimes?
On the boulevards, from Bonne-Nouvelle to the Opera, we find the same
Paris loitering before the shops, sitting in front of the cafes.
Carriages are rare, for the second siege has cut short the provisions
for horses. By the Rue du 4 Septembre we reach the Stock Exchange,
surmounted by the red flag, and the Bibliotheque Nationale, where
readers are sitting round the long tables. Crossing the Palais-Royal,
whose arcades are always noisy, we come to the Museum of the Louvre; the
rooms, hung with their pictures, are open to the public. The Versaillese
journals none the less say the Commune is selling the national
collections to foreigners.
We descend the Rue de Rivoli. On the right, in the Rue Castiglione, a
huge barricade obstructs the entrance of the Place Vendome. The issue of
the Place de la Concorde is barred by the St. Florentin redoubt,
stretching to the Ministry of Marine on its right, and the garden of
the Tuileries on its left, with three rather badly directed embrasures
eight yards wide. An enormous ditch, laying bare all the arteries of
subterranean life, separates the place from the redoubt. The workmen are
giving it the finishing stroke, and cover the epaulments with gazon.
Many promenaders look on inquisitively, and more than one brow lowers. A
corridor skilfully constructed conducts us to the Place de la Concorde.
The proud profile of the Strasbourg statue stands out against the red
flags. The Communards, who are accused of ignoring France, have piously
replaced the faded crowns of the first siege by fresh spring flowers.
We now enter the zone of battle. The avenue of the Champs-Elysees
unrolls its long-deserted line, cut by the dismal bursting of the shells
from Mont-Valerien and Courbevoie. These reach as far as the Palais de
l'Industrie, whose treasures the employes of the Commune courageously
protect. In the distance rises the mighty bulk of the Arc de Triomphe.
The sight-seers of the first days have disappeared, for the Place de
l'Etoile has become almost as deadly as the rampart. The shells break
off the bas-reliefs that M. Jules Simon had caused to be iron-clad
against the Prussians. The main arch is walled up to stop the
projectiles that enfiladed it. Behind this barricade they are getting
ready to mount some pieces on the platform, which is almost as high as
Mont-Valerien.
By the Faubourg St. Honore we pass along the Champs-Elysees. In the
right angle comprised between the Avenue de la Grande Armee, that of the
Ternes, the ramparts, and the Avenue Wagram there is not a house intact.
You see M. Thiers "does not bombard Paris, as the people of the Commune
will not fail to say." Some shreds of a placard hang from a
half-battered wall; it is M. Thiers' speech against King Bomba, which a
group of conciliators have been witty enough to reproduce. "You know,
gentlemen," said he to the bourgeois of 1848, "what is happening at
Palermo. You all have shaken with horror on hearing that during
forty-eight hours a large town has been bombarded. By whom? Was it by a
foreign enemy exercising the rights of war? No, gentlemen, it was by
its own Government. And why? Because that unfortunate town demanded its
rights. Well, then, for the demand of its rights it has got forty-eight
hours of bombardment!" Happy Palermo! Paris already has had forty days
of bombardment.
We have some chance of getting to the Boulevard Pereire by the left side
of the Avenue des Ternes. From there to the Porte-Maillot every spot is
beset with danger. Watching for a momentary lull, we reach the gate, or
rather the heap of ruins that mark its place. The station no longer
exists, the tunnel is filled up, the ramparts are slipping into the
moats. And yet there are human salamanders who dare to move about amidst
these ruins. Facing the gate there are three pieces commanded by Captain
La Marseillaise; on the right, Captain Rouchat with five pieces; on the
left, Captain Martin with four. Monteret, who commands this post for the
last five weeks, lives with them in this atmosphere of shells. The
Mont-Valerien, Courbevoie, and Becon have thrown more than eight hundred
of them. Twelve pieces are served by ten men, naked to the waist, their
body and arms blackened with powder, in a stream of perspiration, often
a match in each hand. The only survivor of the first set, the sailor
Bonaventure, has twenty times seen his comrades dashed to pieces. And
yet they hold out, and these pieces, continually dismounted, are
continually renewed; their artillerists only complain of the want of
munition, for the waggons no longer dare approach. The Versaillese have
very often attempted, and may attempt, surprises. Monteret watches day
and night, and he can without boasting write to the Committee of Public
Safety that so long as he is there the Versaillese will not enter by the
Porte-Maillot.
Every step towards La Muette is a challenge to death. But our friend
must witness all the greatness of Paris. On the ramparts, near the gate
of La Muette, an officer is waving his kepi toward the Bois de Boulogne;
the balls are whistling around him. It is Dombrowski, who is amusing
himself with inveighing against the Versaillese of the trenches. A
member of the Council who is with him succeeds in making him forego
this musketeer foolhardiness, and the general takes us to the castle,
where he has established one of his headquarters. All the rooms are
perforated by shells. Still he remains there, and makes his men remain.
It has been calculated that his aides-de-camp on an average lived eight
days. At this moment the watch of the Belvedere rushes in with appalled
countenance; a shell has traversed his post. "Stay there," says
Dombrowski to him; "if you are not destined to die there you have
nothing to fear." Such was his courage--all fatalism. He received no
reinforcements despite his despatches to the War Office; believed the
game lost, and said so but too often.
This is my only reproach, for you do not expect me to apologise for the
Commune's having allowed foreigners to die for it. Is not this the
revolution of all proletarians? Is it not for the people to at last do
justice to that great Polish race which all French governments have
betrayed?
Dombrowski accompanies us across Passy as far as the Seine, and shows us
the almost abandoned ramparts. The shells crush or mow down all the
approaches to the railway; the large viaduct is giving way at a hundred
places; the iron-clad locomotives have been overthrown. The Versaillese
battery of the Billancourt Isle fires point-blank at our gunboats, and
sinks one, _L'Estoc_, under our very eyes. A tug arrives in time, picks
up the crew, and ascends the Seine under the fire that follows it up to
the Jena Bridge.
A clear sky, a bright sun, peaceful silence envelop this stream, this
wreck, these scattered shells. Death appears more cruel amidst the
serenity of nature. Let us go and salute our wounded at Passy. A member
of the Council, Lefrancais, is visiting the ambulance of Dr. Demarquay,
whom he questions as to the state of the wounded. "I do not share your
opinions," answers the doctor, "and I cannot desire the triumph of your
cause; but I have never seen wounded men preserve more calm and
sangfroid during operations. I attribute this courage to the energy of
their convictions." We then visit the beds; most of the sick anxiously
inquire when they will be able to resume their service. A young fellow
of eighteen, whose right hand had just been amputated, holds out the
other, exclaiming, "I have still this one for the service of the
Commune!" An officer, mortally wounded, is told that the Commune has
just handed over his pay to his wife and children. "I had no right to
it," answers he. "These, my friend, these are the brutish drunkards who,
according to Versailles, form the army of the Commune."
We return by the Champ-de-Mars; its huts are badly manned. Other
_cadres_, a different discipline would be needed to retain the
battalions there. Before the Ecole, 1500 yards from the ramparts, and a
few steps from the War Office, a hundred ordnance pieces remain inert,
loaded with mud. Leaving on our right the War Office, that centre of
discord, let us enter the Corps Legislatif, transformed into a workshop.
Fifteen hundred women are there, sewing the sand sacks that are to stop
up the breaches. A tall and handsome girl, Marthe, round her waist the
red scarf with silver fringe given her by her comrades, distributes the
work. The hours of labour are shortened by joyous songs. Every evening
the wages are paid, and the women receive the whole sum, eight centimes
a sack, while the former contractors hardly gave them two.
We now proceed along the quays, lulled in imperturbable calm. The
Academy of Sciences holds its Monday sittings. It is not the workmen who
have said, "The Republic wants no savants." M. Delaunay is in the chair.
M. Elie de Beaumont looks through the correspondence, and reads a note
from his colleague, M. J. Bertrand, who has fled to St. Germain. We
shall find the report in the _Officiel_ of the Commune.
We must not leave the left bank without visiting the military prison.
Ask the soldiers if they have met with a single menace, a single insult
in Paris; if they are not treated as comrades, subjected to no
exceptional rules, set free when willing to help their Parisian
brothers.
Meanwhile evening has set in. The theatres are opening. The Lyrique
gives a grand performance for the benefit of the wounded, and the
Opera-Comique is preparing another. The Opera promises us a special
performance for the following Monday, when we shall hear Gossec's
revolutionary hymn. The artists of the Gaiete, abandoned by their
manager, themselves direct their theatre. The Gymnase, Chatelet,
Theatre-Francais, Ambigu-Comique, Delassements, have large audiences
every night. Let us pass to more virile spectacles, such as Paris has
not witnessed since 1793.
Ten churches open, and the Revolution mounts the pulpits. In the old
quarter of the Gravilliers, St. Nicholas des Champs is filling with the
powerful murmur of many voices. A few gas-burners hardly light up the
swarming crowd; and at the farther end, almost hidden by the shadow of
the vaults, hangs the figure of Christ draped in the popular oriflamme.
The only luminous centre is the reading-desk, facing the pulpit, hung
with red. The organ and the people chant the _Marseillaise_. The orator,
over-excited by these fantastic surroundings, launches forth into
ecstatic apostrophes, which the echo repeats like a menace. The people
discuss the events of the day, the means of defence; the members of the
Council are severely censured, and vigorous resolutions are voted to be
presented to the Hotel-de-Ville the next day. Women sometimes ask to
speak; at the Batignolles they have a club of their own. No doubt, few
precise ideas come forth from these feverish meetings, but many find
there a provision of energy and of courage.
It is only nine o'clock, and we may still be in time for the concert of
the Tuileries. At the entrance, citoyennes, accompanied by
commissioners, are making a collection for the widows and orphans of the
Commune. The immense rooms are animated by a decent and gay throng. For
the first time respectably-dressed women are seated on the forms of the
court. Three orchestras are playing in the galleries, but the soul of
the fete is in the Salle des Marechaux, where Mademoiselle Agar recites
from "Les Chatiments" in that same place, where, ten months before,
Bonaparte and his band were enthroned. Mozart, Meyerbeer, Rossini, the
great works of art have driven away the musical obscenities of the
Empire. From the large central window the harmonious strains vibrate to
the garden; joyous lights shine like stars on the green-sward, dance
among the trees, and colour the playing fountains. Within the arbours
the people are laughing; but the noble Champs-Elysees, dark and
desolate, seem to protest against these popular masters, whom they have
never acknowledged. Versailles, too, protests by that conflagration of
which a wan reflex lights up the Arc de Triomphe, whose sombre mass
overtowers the civil war.
At eleven o'clock, as the crowd is retiring, we hear a noise from the
side of the chapel. M. Schoelcher has just been arrested. He has been
taken to the prefecture, where, a few hours after, the procureur Rigault
sets him at liberty.
The boulevards are thronged with the people coming from the theatres. At
the Cafe-Peters there is a scandalous gathering of staff-officers and
prostitutes. Suddenly a detachment of National Guards appears and leads
them off. We follow them to the Hotel-de-Ville, where Ranvier, who is on
duty there, receives them. Short shrift is made: the women to St.
Lazare, the officers, with spades and mattocks, to the trenches.
One o'clock in the morning. Paris sleeps tranquilly. Such, my friend, is
the Paris of the brigand. You have seen this Paris thinking, weeping,
combating, working, enthusiastic, fraternal, severe to vice. Her streets
free during the day, are they less safe in the silence of the night?
Since Paris has her own police crime has disappeared.[177] Each one is
left to his instincts, and where do you see debauchery victorious? These
Federals, who might draw milliards, live on ridiculous pay compared with
their usual salaries. Do you at last recognise this Paris, seven times
shot down since 1789, and always ready to rise for the salvation of
France? Where is her programme, say you? Why, seek it before you, and
not at the faltering Hotel-de-Ville. These smoking ramparts, these
explosions of heroism, these women, these men of all professions
united, all the workmen of the earth applauding our combat, all
monarchs, all the bourgeois coalesced against us, do they not speak
loudly enough our common thought, and that all of us are fighting for
equality, the enfranchisement of labour, the advent of a social society?
Woe to France if she does not comprehend! Leave at once; recount what
Paris is. If she dies, what life remains to you? Who, save Paris, will
have strength enough to continue the Revolution? Who save Paris will
stifle the clerical monster? Go, tell the Republican provinces, "These
proletarians fight for you too, who perhaps may be the exiles of
to-morrow." As to that class, the purveyor of empires, that fancies it
can govern by periodical butcheries, go and tell them, in accents loud
enough to drown their clamours, "The blood of the people will enrich the
revolutionary field. The idea of Paris will arise from her burning
entrails and become an inexorable firebrand with the sons of the
slaughtered."
FOOTNOTES:
[176] Funeral of Lieutenant Chatelet, of the 61st.
[177] See the evidence of the chief of police, M. Claude, _Enquete sur
le 18 Mars_. vol. ii. p. 106.