Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  And now began the terrible journey through Montmartre. A heavy mist hung over the hill, hiding its summit, and through it the drums and bugles of the escort sounded dull and spiritless. Cries and groans surrounded them from the furious mob. Death! Death!” they screamed, and blows began to fall among the prisoners. An officer in front of Landes sank to the pavement with his skull split open. Another, a mere boy, was pinned to the ground by a bayonet thrust in the back, and his cries were heartrending, until an old hag beat his brains out with her wooden shoe. The mob had tasted blood and raged howling for more. The officers defended their prisoners with the strength of despair, but another victim was added to the list before the cortege reached the sloping streets of the Buttes-Montmartre. Here herds of maddened women cursed them from the windows and shook brawny fists in their faces. In the midst of an infernal din, the escort halted before a small two-story house on the summit of the hill in the rue des Rosiers. The prisoners were pushed into the courtyard, and afterward into a room on the ground floor. The crowd attempted to follow, but the courtyard was small, and the mob numbered thousands. A shot was fired at the prisoners as they entered, but nobody was touched.

  General Lecomte demanded to be led before the Committee. The Federal officers replied that the Committee had not yet arrived, but was expected every moment.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry!” grinned a franctireur, with a hideous grimace. “There is plenty of time to die.”

  “Sale cochon!” yelled a deserter from the Line, trying to reach Clément Thomas with his bayonet, “you gave me ninety days’ police cell; — I give you eternity!”

  The officers defended their prisoners with unmistakable devotion, but they were few against many. Someone in a red shirt climbed on to the wall and addressed the mob. He begged them to nominate a court-martial or else to wait for the Central Committee. He told them that they were about to commit a cowardly crime, and disgrace the young Republic for which they were shouting so loudly. In vain.

  “Tu parle d’or, mais il nous faut du sang,” said a deserter of the Line, with a brutal laugh.

  “Beware!” shouted the orator, “the soldiers of the Republic should have clean hands. This is butchers’ work!”

  “Et ta sœur! Est ce qu’elle est propre?” bellowed a butcher from La Villette. “You are right, my friend, this is butchers’ work. Death to the bourgeoisie!” and he struck the man a blow with his fist which knocked him into the garden. That was the signal. Howling like wolves, the mob attacked the windows on the first floor, breaking in the sashes with their rifle butts, and thrusting their bayonets into the room. The prisoners stood crowded close together, with white faces, but not a man flinched. Alain de Carette supported Clément Thomas with one arm, and warded off blows with the other. General Lecomte stood quiet and stern, with folded arms, beside Landes, hardly deigning to avoid the bayonet thrusts which fell just short of his breast. Then by the garden gate the mob broke in with dreadful cries, and a shocking scene began. De Carette received at once a blow which sent him reeling to the floor, the mob fell upon Clément Thomas, and the dull sound of blows succeeded the clank of bayonets. At last they got him to the garden and pushed him against the wall. Twelve rifle shots rang out, not in a volley, but one after another, and after the twelfth shot, as the old man still breathed, a corporal of the Belleville battalion stepped forward, and, shoving his revolver into the dying man’s ear, scattered his brains over the grass. And now the mob, drunk with blood, returned and fell upon General Lecomte. Twenty times the other prisoners, with generous devotion, tore him away from the bloody hands that snatched at him. Landes fought desperately, but at last a blow in the chest felled him, and, unable to rise, he dragged himself from under the trampling feet, into a corner. There, leaning back, faint with pain, he saw General Lecomte seized and dragged into the garden, and heard how he was shot to pieces against the wall.

  “Good-bye, Philip!” cried Alain de Carette, staggering to his feet; “they are coming back for us.”

  “I can’t die yet,” stammered Philip; “I won’t die!” and he made a desperate effort to rise. Suddenly a furious crash of drums filled the street outside, and a stream of National Guards poured into the court filling the garden, forcing the peloton of execution into the street.

  “Give us the prisoners!” yelled the crowd.

  “Fix bayonets! Clear the yard!”

  The scene was so hideous that Philip, who had struggled to the window and was looking out, felt he Was losing his senses, but de Carette’s hand tightened on his.

  “We have a chance,” he said. “These are troops from Sceaux.”

  Inch by inch the Sceaux battalion cleared the yard, and then the street immediately in front.

  “You see the consequences,” said the Colonel, shaking his revolver, and forcing his horse into the mob, “of trifling with me and my troops.” He leaned over, seized a burly ruffian by the collar, and swinging him off his feet, deliberately broke his neck over the pommel of his saddle. The mob had already begun to sober a little, to realize what it had done, and to fear consequences. More than one brute, red-handed from his share of slaughter in the garden, had slunk away, and was skulking on the outskirts of the crowd, still held there by the fascination of his crime; but at this merciless exhibition of physical strength they hesitated no longer, and in half an hour the Sceaux battalion, drums and bugles sounding, prisoners in their midst, marched unmolested out of the rue des Rosiers, and shortly afterward entered the Château Rouge without striking a blow.

  So began the famous 18th of March, 1871. The Central Committee had made its bow, the curtain was rising on a drama called the “Commune,” with all Paris for a stage, and Monsieur Thiers as prompter.

  CHAPTER V. A COWARDLY FLIGHT.

  WHEN the convoy of prisoners arrived in the rue Clignancourt, the bells of Montmartre were sounding five o’clock. A wet fog had settled over the city, the streets grew slippery with greasy mud. The prisoners marched into the courtyard, and an officer with note-book in hand walked along the line, taking names and addresses. When he came to Alain de Carette, he stopped in confusion.

  “Good evening,” said Alain, sarcastically; “shall I give you my name?”

  “Good evening, Monsieur de Carette,” said the other, in a low voice; “it is not necessary, thank you.” He passed on to the next prisoner, who was Landes, hesitated, and turned back to Alain. “Is there anything I can do for Monsieur,” he asked, looking at the ground.

  “You are not in a position to confer favors,” replied Alain, contemptuously.

  “I am chef de bataillon,” said the man, misunderstanding him.

  “And my former valet,” replied de Carette.

  “I do not forget that you were very kind to me,” said the man, doggedly; “I’ll do what I can for you, and for your friend.” He took Philip’s name and passed on along the line. Then the prisoners were conducted to the second floor of the Château Rouge. Almost immediately an officer entered, calling for Captain de Carette and “le nommé” Philip Landes. When they stepped forward, he led them down the stairs again and into a narrow passage, at the end of which a man sat behind a table writing. It was Jaclard, chef de bataillon of the National Guard.

  “Are you the two prisoners?” he inquired, nervously.

  They gave their names, and he nodded and began to question them awkwardly. Landes and de Carette answered with hope in their hearts again.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Jaclard, fumbling in an embarrassed manner with his pens and paper, “you are at liberty to go. The Central Committee won’t come to-night.”

  “Are we free?” stammered Philip.

  “Yes.”

  “And the others?” demanded Alain.

  “They will have to wait here to-night. The Central Committee will judge them to-morrow; I have no time to bother with them to-night,” he snapped pettishly, and walked out, slamming the door. The two friends gazed at each other. Was this true? Were they free, or was it a trap to shoot them
down as they entered the court? Philip and Alain thought of this at the same moment.

  “I’ll go first,” said the latter.

  “No, I will,” insisted Philip, but de Carette pushed through the door before him and sprang into the yard. It was silent and empty. “Come, Philip!” he whispered, and together they passed the gate and went into the street. —

  “If we ‘re recognized now we ‘re done for,” muttered de Carette. My uniform will probably do the business for me, anyway; you must leave me now.”

  “I won’t go,” replied Philip, angrily.

  “All right, we’ll pull through together, — is that a cab?”

  “It has no number; I’ll ask,” said Landes, and ran across the street while de Carette drew back into the shadow. The driver was not in sight. Philip looked about, and then quietly stepped into the driver’s place and beckoned to Alain. “Jump inside, quick,” he whispered, as the latter came up. Alain did so, and leaned back out of sight. Philip gathered up the reins, and the horse moved off at once. Unquestioned they passed a strong post of National Guards on the exterior Boulevard and turned into the city at a smart trot. On they rattled past more National Guards and a small park of cannon, through noisy streets filled with excited people, but nobody interfered with them, and at last they reached the Grand Boulevard in safety. That part of the city was perfectly tranquil. People sat smoking in front of all the cafés, precisely as if they knew nothing about the bloody tragedy of the rue des Rosiers. In front of Tortoni’s, gay groups of ladies and gentlemen sipped their cordials, and street fakirs thronged the sidewalks and pressed their wares as usual. All the theatres were open and blazing with gas, vehicles crowded along the Boulevard des Italiens, and the terraces of the Café de la Paix were packed.

  “It seems incredible,” said Philip, looking down at de Carette, who thrust his head out of the window and motioned him to stop; “it seems incredible! I don’t believe the city knows anything about Montmartre.”

  “Evidently not,” said Alain, cynically.

  “Where shall I drive, Monsieur?” asked Landes, smiling.

  “Drive to the War Ministry. I must report there at once.” Landes drove on through the crowd of omnibuses and cabs. In a few minutes they drew up before the Ministry of War in the rue St. Dominique. They left the cab standing before the porte cochère of the War Ministry, and Philip followed de Carette into the court and up the stairs to the second landing. Here a sentinel halted them, took de Carette’s name, and sent a servant away to find a staff-officer. Presently they were ushered into a long apartment where three officers sat with their heads together over a small table by a window. The three officers were old General Le Flô, Marshal Mac-Mahon, and General Borel.

  “Well,” said General Le Flô, smiling pleasantly at Alain, “you look like one of my youngsters.”

  “I have served on your staff, mon Général,” replied Alain, saluting. “At present I am with General Vinoy.”

  “Where is General Vinoy?” inquired Marshal MacMahon, who had only that day returned from captivity in Germany, and knew nothing of the expedition to Montmartre. Before Alain could answer, General Borel spoke up sharply:

  “You have been on Montmartre?” —

  Alain told his story.

  The three officers sat silent; MacMahon tugged at his grey moustache and glanced at Borel, who gnawed his lip and tore bits of paper from the map before him. Alain and Philip saw that the War Ministry was hearing of the disaster for the first time, and yet he felt certain that the news had been received by M. Thiers.

  “Well,” demanded General Le Flô, “what is your opinion? Is it a riot or a revolution?”

  “Mon Général,” replied Alain, “it is a riot in which blood has been shed. I was on your staff during the 22d of January in the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville. The two riots are much alike, only this one has not been checked—”

  “Who is this gentleman?” interrupted Borel, brusquely.

  “Monsieur Landes, mon Général. An American, and an eye-witness; — and a brave and loyal friend who compromised himself for me, and who helped us to defend General Lecomte in the rue des Rosiers until defence was no longer possible.”

  “Monsieur belongs to a brave nation,” said MacMahon, looking kindly at Philip.

  The door opened and two men entered. The three generals rose and saluted respectfully, but the smaller of the new-comers motioned them to be seated, and turning to his companion began speaking in a high, thin, querulous voice.

  “Monsieur Calmon, send for that aide-de-camp from General Pointe de Gévigny, and tell Du Faure to come to-morrow morning.” Then sitting down in an arm-chair before the fireplace, he removed a pair of enormous glasses, polished them with his handkerchief, and replaced them on his nose.

  Philip had seen more than one picture of that little white-headed gentleman, and he knew that he stood in the presence of Monsieur Adolphe Thiers.

  “I have a tooth-ache,” said the Chief of the Executive Power in a high-pitched voice. “Why doesn’t that aide-de-camp come?”

  General Le Flô walked over and whispered some words in the President’s ear.

  “Eh?” cried Thiers, peeping at de Carette over Le Flô’s shoulder. “Dear me! Let him tell his story again.”

  “But surely,” said Marshal MacMahon, “this is not news to you? You must have sent somebody to Montmartre for information since eight o’clock this morning?”

  “Nobody was sent. The cannon had been captured,” snapped the President, peering at Alain through his round glasses. “Tell your story, Captain.”

  Alain related his experience again briefly, and paused.

  “Have you anything more to say?” inquired Thiers.

  “If the opinion of an artillery officer—” began Alain, modestly.

  “Go on,” said Thiers, impatiently.

  “There was one cause,” resumed Alain, dryly, “for the failure to remove the guns this morning after they were retaken. No horses were sent to remove them. There was one reason why this failure resulted in disaster. No food had been sent for the soldiers. The infantry were in position for hours without having breakfasted and without any prospect of breakfasting.”

  “What kind of infantry is that?” growled Mac-Mahon, “which mutinies for want of a single breakfast?”

  “It is an infantry demoralized by mixing with civilians, mon Général.”

  “Civilians!” broke in General Le Flô. “Canaille! Montmartre canaille! Belleville ragamuffins!” Thiers glanced restlessly from face to face and made some inarticulate noises.

  “Mon Général!” said Alain to Le Flô, “it is not for me to tell you the causes of our disaster. You know better than I that we officers have lost prestige with our troops through defeat. In the field they still obey us from habit and a sense of danger, but here in the city an officer no longer represents safety.”

  “It is true,” said General Le Flô, “neither security nor authority belongs to a government which may cease to exist to-day or to-morrow. How can officers command troops in its name?”

  Thiers looked angrily at the speaker.

  “Et puis,” he said, turning brusquely to Alain.

  “I fear I am intruding on your valuable time,”said de Carette, stiffly, irritated by the President’s manner.

  “No, no, continue, mon enfant,” said Le Flô.

  Alain went on quietly, “Those troops which surrounded Montmartre were really nothing but National Guards in Line uniform. Young and raw they fraternized readily with anyone who brought them food. The people gave them bread, wine, meat, tobacco. They let the gamins handle their rifles. When their officers interfered, they cursed them first and then assaulted them.”

  “The cavalry charged until cut to pieces, and the artillery galloped off with its guns to a place of safety,” put in Thiers.

  The three Generals exchanged glances at this proof that the President was well informed about the whole affair. General Le Flô replied:

  “It is alw
ays the infantry that disbands first in a revolt, the cavalry next, the artillery last. An infantryman throws away his weapon and runs, but a trooper is less willing to abandon the horse that carries him, and which he considers his property. As for the artillery, it is composed of human units around a centre, a massive, formidable arm; it disintegrates with difficulty.

  “After all,” said General Le Flô, “it appears that the only regiment which has revolted is the 88th infantry-de-marche, mostly new recruits from Belleville and Montmartre.”

  At that moment Calmon, chief of Thiers’ private cabinet, entered with the aide-de-camp from General Pointe de Gévigny. Thiers nodded to them and then turned brusquely to de Carette.

  “Neither General Lecomte nor General Clément Thomas has been shot. I have just seen Messieurs Langlois and Lockroy, and they swear that they will answer for the lives of both those Generals.”

  “I affirm that they were shot this afternoon,” cried Alain, hotly.

  “But,” insisted Thiers, who had evidently known the truth all the while, and only wished to gain time before acknowledging it, “but how do you know this?”

  “I have already told you. I saw the Generals dragged out by the mob, and heard the shots that killed them.”

  “Did you see them shot?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s not proven,” said the President, turning abruptly away. “Where’s the aide-de-camp from General Pointe de Gévigny?”

  De Carette flushed at this insult, but stepped back and gave place to the aide who now advanced and saluted.

  “Where do you come from?” demanded the President.

  “From Cherbourg, mon Président.”

  “From whom?”

  “From General Pointe de Gévigny and General Farre.”—”

  “And your name?”

  “Xavier Feuillant, Ordnance officer to General Farre.”

  “And what does he want?”

  “General Farre sends me to say,” said the aide, much disconcerted by Thiers’ manner, “that General Pointe de Gévigny commands at Cherbourg a corps of thirty-five thousand men, with all facilities for transportation to Paris within forty-eight hours. Their discipline and courage are unquestioned. The General offers you his support, and promises that within forty-eight hours not an insurgent will remain in Paris if you accept his offer.”