At the street gate below he halted a moment. Somewhere in the city, across the Seine, the drums were beating the alarm, and the tocsin added its clamor to the rising tumult. His battalion, the “Avengers,” lay behind the barricades across the river. Should he join it? For a moment he hesitated, then turned in the opposite direction, walking swiftly, holding his sabre tightly under his left arm.
The day was Sunday, the 21st of May, or, as the Commune styled it, “3rd Prairial of the year 79.” It was late in the afternoon, and the fury of the bombardment had slackened toward the Point-du-Jour, now merely a heap of smoking ruins; for the Versaillist batteries had riddled the viaduct, driven away or sunk the gun-boats under its arches, and had cleared the neighboring bastions of men and cannon. The fort of Montrouge and the batteries at Moulin-Saquet still replied to the Versailles batteries, or flung their shells among the thickets of the Bois-de-Boulogne: and Delescluze, now délégué civil à la guerre, was very well satisfied with his inspection of these forts, and the enceinte of the south and east.
The rue Notre Dame had so far escaped the shells, but on the 21st of May, at five o’clock in the afternoon, a huge projectile appeared in the sky above Pont Neuf. Shrieking, hissing, it fell in the Luxembourg Gardens, and exploded among a group of children and nurse-maids. Then horror multiplied on horror; the air was rent by howling shells, and the crash of explosions drowned the shrieks of innocent women and children.
The “Avengers” massed behind the barricade on the rue Notre Dame heard the tumult and waited impatiently for their new Colonel, Weser.
“The shells will be falling among us before long,” they growled; “we won’t stay here to be decimated without firing a shot.”
“We want our Colonel!” clamored the officers, angrily, as a shell struck a house at the bottom of the rue Vavin and exploded with a startling “bang-g-g!”
“It appears to me that your Colonel is a coward,” observed a man wearing a red ribbon across his breast.
“That’s it! A coward! a coward!” shouted the soldiers, lifting their rifles above their heads and shaking them with rage. “Give us a leader! Give us a man! To the fortifications! to the fortifications!”
“I will lead you,” said the man who wore the red sash across his breast.
“What’s your name?” yelled an officer.
“Delescluze, délégué civil à la guerre, citizens!”
Then the troops broke into maddening shouts of joy, and the drums rolled from the rue Vavin.
“Delescluze! Delescluze! Forward! He will lead us into fire!” they howled, and the rue Notre Dame echoed with the confused din of departure.
From the iron gateway of a court-yard, half way up the street, a face, with two frightened eyes, appeared, cautiously reconnoitring. As the “Avengers,” company after company, tramped away through the rue Notre Dame and swung into the rue Vavin cheering for Delescluze and the Commune, the face was thrust farther and farther from the gate; and at last, as the rear of the battalion disappeared around the corner of the Convent, the head, shoulders, and finally the whole body of the anxious watcher appeared. It was Joseph Lelbcard, concierge to Philip Landes. Trouble and fright had paled Joseph’s features. His face, now thin and unkempt, worked convulsively for a moment, then he turned hastily back into the alley and, galloping through the garden, entered the studio without knocking. Ellice was sitting before the empty fireplace, his head in his hands, and he looked up, startled, as Joseph entered.
“What in Heaven’s name—” he began, but Joseph’s face was radiant, and he swung his arms about his head in a delirium of joy.
“The Federals have gone! Oh, Monsieur Jack, they have gone! Not a single Communard remains in the rue Notre Dame! You do not believe me! You turn pale and tremble! Yet I, Joseph Lelocard, say it — they have gone!”
“What is it, Monsieur Ellice?” cried Marguerite, coming to the balcony of the room above. She was very pale but more beautiful than ever.
“Mademoiselle de Saint-Brieuc,” stammered Ellice, “Joseph says the Federals have gone.”
“Come for yourself and see, Monsieur Ellice, — come and see, Mademoiselle de Saint-Brieuc, — it is as I say!”
“If they have gone — really gone this time,” said Marguerite, slowly, “we should not lose a single moment. For the man who got into the garden yesterday was a spy; there can be no doubt about it, and Raoul Rigault will not leave us in peace for many hours more.”
“I fear he was a spy,” said Ellice; “I have tried not to be anxious or frighten you, but I have no doubt that he was here from Rigault’s police. We ought to leave this place at once. How soon can you get ready?”
“I am ready,” she replied.
“Mademoiselle is right; it is better not to take anything with you through the streets,” said Joseph.
“Then come quickly,” cried Ellice, putting on his hat; “I have all the money with me.”
Marguerite ran down the stairs into the studio, and they walked hastily through the garden, Joseph following.
“Good-bye, Mademoiselle; good-bye, Monsieur,” he said, while the tears ran over his cheeks; “I will take good care of the studio and the puppy. If God wills it, you will come back and bring my poor, dear Monsieur Philip and — and — Mademoiselle de Brassac” — he was blubbering outright now, and Ellice shook his hard hand silently.
“We will come back, my good Joseph,” said Marguerite, with tears in her eyes; and followed Ellice into the rue Notre Dame. Ten minutes later, as Joseph stood in the doorway of his lodge, contemplating a bone which Toodles had recently disinterred from a flower bed, a file of National Guards entered the alley-way and halted before him. But it was two late, the birds were on the wing, and Ferré, who led the file of soldiers, retired, menacing Joseph with future punishment in case it was proved that he knew of the fugitives’ flight. For Joseph had done the idiot act to perfection, and Ferré, muttering “imbecile, cretin, idiot!” went out banging the gate violently. —
By half-past five o’clock Ellice and Marguerite had managed to reach the Trocadéro. Their path to the American Legation was a tortuous one, for barricades cut the streets everywhere, and long, weary detours were necessary.
“I don’t know,” said Ellice; “this seems to be almost hopeless. Here we are at the Trocadéro and not the slightest prospect of getting any nearer to Mr. Washburn.”
“Ah, if his Excellency only knew!” sighed Marguerite. Then in a low voice she continued: “Don’t look, Jack, but a man is watching us from the kiosque behind you. What shall we do?”
“Is it a Federal soldier?”
“No — a citizen; oh, he is coming!”
Ellice turned and faced the man, who was now close to them.
“Whom are you seeking in this quarter, citizen?” asked the man, politely lifting his hat.
Ellice did not answer.
“You appear to be lost,” said the man. “Are you looking for any street to which I may be able to direct you?”
“No, Monsieur—” began Marguerite — then bit her lip, for she had forgotten to say “Citizen” instead of “Monsieur,” and the man would know that they were either suspects or fugitives.
Then the man began to laugh. “Do not be alarmed, Madame,” he said, “I also belong to your party. My name is Ducatel, Conducteur des Ponts et Chausées. You can speak freely. Can I aid you?”
“Indeed you can,” said Ellice, “if you really mean it. We are homeless. Can you give us a roof for the night?”
“I would be very happy to do so. I live near the Point-du-Jour, but in my house the cellar is the safest place just now. If you will do me the honor to follow me, I will lead you there in twenty minutes,” said Ducatel, pleasantly.
Ellice was inclined to be suspicious of Monsieur Ducatel and his offer, and said so frankly.
“Mon Dieu!” laughed the Frenchman, “it is your affair. I regret that these times make friends seem like enemies, but I can only offer you what I have.”
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p; “Then we accept your offer,” said Ellice, a little ashamed; and he and Marguerite followed Monsieur Ducatel toward the Point-du-Jour.
“Do you not think it is strange that we meet no Federal troops?” said Ducatel, after they had been walking for ten minutes in silence. Ellice looked about him. It was twilight. The long rows of empty streets stretched away into Paris, and in the lamps no lights appeared. The houses stood up on every side, black, battered, and deserted. He began to realize the desolation of the scene and glanced at Ducatel.
The Frenchman hurried on, growing more and more excited as he neared the fortifications.
“Monsieur,” he cried, “I believe the Federals have abandoned the quarter! See the marks that the shells leave, — everywhere ruin and destruction, — ha! there is a barricade; can you see any movement behind it?”
“It is abandoned,” said Ellice, quickly, catching the excitement.
“Then — do you know that nothing is here to prevent the entry of the Versailles troops!” cried Ducatel. “It seems incredible that the Federals should leave the ramparts. Just look how battered they are! That breach would be wide enough in a few days at any rate. What a chance the Versaillists have — if they only knew it!”
“Suppose we try to attract their attention,” said Marguerite.
Ducatel looked at her. Then he drew out his handkerchief and tied it to the end of his umbrella.
“Madame is right,” he said eagerly, “we can try. The Versaillists are not two hundred mètres from the bastions.
Ellice and Marguerite started to follow him to the ramparts but he waved them back.
“They may fire,” he said, “why risk three lives?”
“Is it necessary to mount the ramparts?” asked Marguerite; “why not try to signal them from the gate there?”
“Better still,” muttered Ducatel.
Ellice and Marguerite helped him drag the iron grille open and then the Frenchman stepped along the massive sally-port, peering anxiously out through the twilight into the country beyond. Ellice and Marguerite were too excited to stay behind, and presently the three stood on the extreme edge of the moat, waving handkerchiefs and hats in the direction of the Versailles trenches. One by one a dozen dark, heads bobbed up from the rifle pits and Ellice caught the glitter of musket barrels in the starlight.
“Go back, Mademoiselle,” he said hastily, “they may fire!” but Marguerite refused.
The minutes passed and the dark forms in the distant trenches increased in number, but no answering signals came back. Ducatel was in despair. “Ten to one they think it a trick!” he said bitterly; “you, Madame, and you also, Monsieur, should not expose yourselves, for I, for my part, expect a volley.” Ellice tried to lead Marguerite back to the shelter of the gateway, but she refused obstinately and swung her handkerchief in desperation.
“They must understand!” she kept repeating, “oh! do you not think they will?” Then, as they looked, a form leaped from the trenches, bearing aloft a white rag tied to a sabre.
“They understand! They are coming!” cried Ellice.
Ducatel waved his umbrella frantically. Nearer and nearer came the grey figure, and now they heard a challenge shouted across the fields; “Don’t fire! Officer with flag of truce!”
“Thank God!” sobbed Marguerite.
Ducatel sprang forward on the causeway, and Ellice saw him join the Versailles officer in the middle of the field. The meeting was unmistakably cordial, for he saw Ducatel fling himself into the officer’s arms and embrace him vigorously. Then a whistle sounded and out of the trenches sprang masses of men, and before Ellice had time to think, they were pouring across the causeway to the shattered sally-port.
“Is it deserted?” cried an officer, incredulously.
“Yes! Yes! Hurry!” replied Ellice, laughing with joy; “there’s not a Federal in the Trocadéro quarter!”
From the star-lit fields outside the trenches, long dark columns now appeared, infantry and artillery, and presently a field battery clanked through the sally-port. Ellice drew Marguerite aside to let it pass. She was weeping now, for the joy of sudden deliverance was too great. As they watched the passing cannon, out from the throng and press of horsemen a cavalier trotted, holding a torch. The glimmering light fell full on men and cannon, and Ellice smiled silent greetings to many a bronzed artilleryman, bumping in through the gateway. The batteries rumbled past, and an officer, riding a fiery black charger, attempted to cut out ahead of the caissons.
“Go back!” said Ellice, “you will crush us!” But Marguerite sprang forward and caught at his stirrup.
“Alain!” she cried, “oh, Alain!”
The officer bent in his stirrups and, seizing the girl, swung her to the saddle in front of him. Then raising his hand, he shouted, “Halt! halt!” and the long file of guns and caissons stopped.
“What is the trouble, Captain de Carette?” cried an officer hurrying up from the rear.
“No trouble, Major — my wife was in danger for a moment. Wait until I take her out ahead of the train — now you can order them forward.”
And so Captain Alain de Carette rode into Paris at the head of his battery with his fainting wife on his saddle-bow.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE VIVANDIERE OF THE 66TH.
ON the night of the twenty-second of May, forty prisoners were hurriedly transferred from the Mazas Prison to the prison of La Grande Roquette. Of these forty, Monseigneur Darboy, Archbishop of Paris, was the most important in the eyes of the Commune; the least important were Philip Landes and Jeanne de Brassac.
That morning, as Delescluze, délégué civil à la guerre, sat consulting with Raoul Rigault in the Hôtel de Ville, a messenger arrived breathless with the news that the Versaillists were in Paris.
Rigault bellowed his astonishment, but Delescluze, scornfully discrediting the news, jumped into a carriage and drove rapidly toward the Trocadéro to see for himself. An hour later he returned, haggard and anxious.
“The gate of the Point-du-Jour was abandoned last night,” he said, “and the enemy hold the Trocadéro!”
“Then,” replied Rigault, coolly, “I must hurry my executions. Where is Colonel Weser?”
“Deserted,” said Delescluze, in a low voice.
“You’d better inform the Commune,” returned Rigault; “au revoir, I’m going to shoot a few priests,” and he walked away toward the Mazas Prison.
Delescluze called Fortin and told him all.
“They can never pass the barricades!” growled Fortin, but Ferré, yelling like a lunatic, burst into the council chamber of the Commune, shaking his fists and rolling his bloodshot eyes.
“Treachery! Treachery!” he shouted; “the Versaillists are in Paris!”
The Commune rose in a body, angry, incredulous.
“Who dared say it?” thundered Sicard, his face distorted with passion.
“To the barricades!” cried another, and pandemonium broke loose in the Hôtel de Ville.
Then began that horrible seven days’ fight in the streets of Paris, where thirty-five thousand Federals wrere butchered by the Versailles troops. In three divisions MacMahon’s army encircled the city, and hour by hour the circle contracted, leaving heaps of corpses, and gutters pouring blood into the overflowing sewers. Street after street, barricade after barricade fell, and inch by inch Thiers’ army fought its way through Paris amid the frenzied acclamations of the citizens, while the Commune, retreating from the blood-wet barricades, turned savagely on the people with torch and sword.
Heavy explosions shook the city to its foundations; the splendid rue Royale was blazing, and the Ministry of Finance, its noble façade dripping with petroleum, caught fire and sent a roaring pillar of flame into the sky. Ruffians from Belleville and the Faubourgs dashed pails of petroleum over museums and palaces, or pumped it out of fire-engines, directing streams of kerosene from the great fire hose, over wall, roof, and spire. The Tuileries vomited flames from every window, the Louvre, the Palais Royale, the Conseil
d’État, the Palace of the Legion of Honor, all were burning. An enormous mushroom-shaped cloud hung over Paris, hiding the sun, and through the pall of smoke and dust plunged the shells from Mont-Valérien, whistling, shrieking, bursting, and crashing, among the barricades, drowning the fierce roar of the flames and rattle of musketry. The Palais de Justice sank to the ground, a heap of glowing coals, through which the Sainte-Chapelle showed intact. When the Préfecture of Police began to pour out volumes of thick black smoke, Raoul Rigault sauntered out of it with a sneer on his lips.
A man, standing all alone on the corner opposite, watched the conflagration with satisfaction until the 66th battalion of Federals appeared at the lower end of the street closely pressed by a body of Versailles dragoons. Then the man, who wore the uniform of an insurgent staff-officer, started to run, but his progress was interrupted by a fresh influx of Federals from the opposite end of the street, and he struggled for a moment to disengage himself.
“Where are you going, Citizen?” cried a young girl whom he had jostled. She was dressed in the uniform of a regimental Vivandière, and carried her left hand in a sling.
“Tiens, it’s Isidor Weser!” she added, angrily; “running away too. This won’t do, you know, Citizen Weser!”
“Let me alone!” panted Weser, starting to run again.
“Stop him!” cried the Vivandière, “he is deserting in the face of the enemy!”
“I’ll fix you, Faustine Courtois!” snarled Weser, trembling with fright, and he struck at her savagely with the hilt of his sabre. The blow fell on the interposed barrel of a rifle, and two Federal soldiers seized him by the collar.
“Oh, he strikes at the Commune, does he?” cried a soldier, snatching a revolver from his red sash, “let us settle this gentleman’s affair!”
Before he could fire, however, he was knocked off his feet by a sudden stampede of the insurgents. The Versailles dragoons were among them, sabring, shooting, trampling, but the 66th battalion rallied and threw themselves on the horsemen like wild beasts, howling, bayoneting, tearing tooth and nail until the dragoons wheeled and fled.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 50
