Monday, the 3rd of April.^[33] A fearful day! I have been hurrying this way and that, looking, questioning, reading. It is now ten o’clock in the evening. And what do I know? Nothing certain; nothing except this, which is awful,—they are fighting.

Yes, at the gates of Paris, Frenchmen against Frenchmen, beneath the eyes of the Prussians, who are watching the battle-field like ravens: they are fighting. I have seen ambulance waggons pass full of National Guards. By whom have they been wounded? By Zouaves. Is this thing credible, is it possible? Ah! those guns, cannon, and mitrailleuses, why were they not all claimed by the enemy—all, every one, from soldiers and Parisians alike? But little hindrance would that have proved. It had been resolved—by what monstrous will?—that we should be hurled to the very bottom of the precipice. These Frenchmen, who would kill Frenchmen, would not be checked by lack of arms. If they could not shoot each other, they would strangle each other.

This, indeed, was unlooked for. An insurrection was feared; men thought of the June days; that evening when the battalions devoted to the National Assembly camped in the neighbourhood of the Bank, we imagined, as a horrible possibility, muskets pointed from between the stones of barricades, blood flowing in the streets, men killed, women in tears. But who could have foretold that a new species of civil war was preparing? That Paris, separated from France, would be blockaded by Frenchmen? That it would once more be deprived of communication with the provinces; once more starved perhaps? That there would be, not a few men struggling to the death in one of the quarters of the town, but two armies in presence, each with chiefs, fortifications and cannon? That Paris, in a word, would be besieged anew? How abominable a surprise of fate!

The cannonading has been heard since morning. Ah! that sound, which, during the siege, made our hearts beat with hope,—yes, with hope, for it made us believe in a possible deliverance—how horrible it was this morning. I went towards the Champs ElysÉes. Paris was deserted. Had it understood at last that its honour, its existence even, were at stake in this revolution, or was it only not up yet? Battalions were marching along the boulevards, with music playing. They were going towards the Place VendÔme, and were singing. The cantiniÈres were carrying guns. Some one told me that men had been at work all night in the neighbourhood of the HÔtel de Ville, and that the streets adjoining it were blocked with barricades. But in fact no one knows anything, except that there is fighting in Neuilly, that the “Royalists” have attacked, and that “our brothers are being slaughtered.” A few groups are assembled in the Place de la Concorde. I approach, and find them discussing the question of the rents,—yes, of the rents! Ah! it is certain those who are being killed at this moment will not have to pay their landlord. On reaching the Rond Point I can distinctly perceive a compact crowd round the Triumphal Arch, and I meet some tired National Guards who are returning from the battle. They are ragged, dusty, and dreary. “What has happened?”—“We are betrayed!” says one.—“Death to the traitors!” cries another.

No certain news from the field of battle. A runaway, seated outside a cafÉ amidst a group of eager questioners, recounts that the barricade at the Neuilly bridge has been attacked by sergents de ville dressed as soldiers, and Pontifical Zouaves carrying a white flag.—“A parliamentary flag?” asks some one.—“No! a royalist flag,” answered the runaway.—“And the barricade has been taken?”—“We had no cartridges; we had not eaten for twenty-four hours; of course we had to decamp.”

Farther on a soldier of the line affirms that the barricade has been taken again. The cannon roars still. Mont ValÉrien is firing, it is said, on the Courbevoie barracks, where a battalion of Federal guards was stationed yesterday.—“But they were off before daybreak,” adds the soldier.

As I continue my road the groups become more numerous. I lift my head and see a shell burst over the Avenue of the Grande ArmÉe, leaving a puff of white smoke hanging for a few seconds like a cloud-flake detached by the wind.

On I go still. The height on which the Arc de Triomphe stands is covered with people; a great many women and children among them. They are mounted on posts, clinging to the projections of the Arch, hanging to the sculpture of the bas-reliefs. One man has put a plank upon the tops of three chairs, and by paying a few sous the gapers can hoist themselves upon it. From this position one can perceive a motionless, attentive crowd reaching down the whole length of the Avenue of the Grande ArmÉe, as far as the Porte Maillot, from which a great cloud of white smoke springs up every moment followed by a violent explosion,—it is the cannon of the ramparts firing on the Rond Point of Courbevoie; and beyond this the Avenue de Neuilly stretching far out in the sunshine, deserted and dusty, a human form crossing it rapidly from time to time; and farthest of all, beyond the Seine, beyond the Avenue de l’Empereur, deserted too, the hill of Courbevoie, where a battery of the Versailles troops is established. But stretch my eyes as I may I cannot distinguish the guns; but a few men, sentinels doubtless, can be made out. They are sergents de ville, says my right-hand neighbour; but he on my left says they are Pontifical Zouaves. They must have good eyes to recognise the uniforms at this distance. The most contradictory rumours circulate as to the barricade on the bridge; it is impossible for one to ascertain whether it has remained in the possession of the soldiers or the Federals. There has been but little fighting, moreover, since I came. A little later, at twelve o’clock, the fusillade ceases entirely. But the battery on the ramparts continues to fire upon Courbevoie, and Mont ValÉrien still shells Neuilly at intervals. Suddenly a flood of dust, coming from Porte Maillot, thrusts back the thick of the crowd, and as it flies, widening, and whirling more madly as it comes, everyone is seized with terror, and rushes away screaming and gesticulating. A shell has just fallen, it is said, in the Avenue of the Grande ArmÉe. Not a soul remains about the Triumphal Arch. The adjoining streets are filled with people who have run to take shelter there. By little and little, however, the people begin to recover themselves, the flight is stopped in the middle, and, laughing at their momentary panic, they turn back again. A quarter of an hour afterwards the crowd is everywhere as compact as before.

This panorama gives an idea of the theatre of operations of the Second Siege of Paris. The Prussians closed the eastern enceinte, whilst the Federals held the southern forts to the last, with the exception of Issy and Vanves that were abandoned. Point-du-Jour and Porte Maillot were the parts particularly attacked; the former being defended by the Federal gunboats on the Seine. Mont ValÉrien, it will be seen, commands the whole of the distant plateau. About one mile and a half beyond the Triumphal Arch the river Seine intersects the space from south to north, enclosing the Bois de Boulogne and the villages of Neuilly, Villiers, and Courcelles, being a sort of outer fortification. The walls of Paris follow the same line, falling about half a mile on the other side of the Arch, and parallel runs a line of railway within the fortified wall. This view exhibits the portion the Prussians were permitted to occupy for two days: all the outlets, except the west, being barricaded and defended.

This spectacle, however, of combatants and gapers distresses me, and in despair of learning anything I return into the city.

At some distance from the scene of events one gets better information, or, at any rate, a great deal more of it. Imagination has better play when it is farther from the fact. A hundred absurd stories reach me. What appears tolerably certain is, that the Federals have received a check, not very important in itself, the Versailles troops having made but little advance, but at any rate a check which might have some influence on the resolution of the National Guards. They have been told that the army would not fight, that the soldiers of the line would turn the butt-ends of their guns into the air at Neuilly as they had done at Montmartre. But now they begin to believe that the army will fight, and those who cry the loudest that it was the sergents de ville and Charette’s Zouaves who led the attack alone, seem as if they said it to give themselves courage and keep up their illusions.

But from which side did the first shot come? On this point everyone has something to say, and no one knows what to believe. Official reports are looked for with the utmost impatience. The walls, generally so communicative, are mute up to this hour. The least improbable of the versions circulated is the following: At break of day some shots are said to have been exchanged between the Federal advanced guard and the patrols of the Versailles troops. None dead or wounded; only powder wasted, happily. A little later, and a few minutes after the arrival of General Vinoy at Mont ValÉrien, a messenger with a flag of truce, preceded by a trumpeter and accompanied by two sergents de ville (inevitably), is said to have presented himself at the bridge of Courbevoie. The name of the messenger has been given,—Monsieur Pasquier, surgeon-in-chief to the regiment of mounted gendarmes. Two of the National Guards go to meet him; after some words exchanged, one of the Federals blows out Monsieur Pasquier’s brains with his revolver, and ten minutes later Mont ValÉrien opens a formidable fire, which continues as fiercely four hours afterwards.

Meanwhile the drams beat to arms, on all sides. A considerable number of battalions defile along the Boulevard Montmartre; more than twenty thousand men, some say, who pretend to know. On they march, singing and shouting “Vive la Commune! Vive la RÉpublique!” They are answered by a few shouts. These are not the Montmartre and Belleville guards alone; peaceful faces of citizens and merchants may be seen under the military kÉpis, and many hands are white as no workman’s are. They march in good order,—they are calm and resolved; one feels that these men are ready to die for a cause that they believe to be just. I raise my hat as they pass; one must do honour to those who, even if they be guilty, push their devotion so far as to expose themselves to death for their convictions.

But what are these convictions? What is the Commune? The men who sit at the HÔtel de Ville have published no programme, yet they kill and are killed for the sake of the Commune. Oh, words! words! What power they have over you, heroic and most simple people!

In the evening out came a proclamation. There was so great a crowd wherever it was posted up that I had not the chance of copying it; but it ran somewhat in these terms:—

“CITIZENS,—This morning the Royalists have ATTACKED.
“Impatient, before our moderation they have ATTACKED.
“Unable to bring French bayonets against us, they have opposed us with the Imperial Guard and Pontifical Zouaves.
“They have bombarded the inoffensive village of Neuilly.
“Charette’s chouans, Cathelineau’s VendÉens, Trochu’s Bretons, Valentin’s gendarmes, have rushed upon us.
“There are dead and wounded.
“Against this attack, renewed from the Prussians, Paris should rise to a man.
“Thanks to the support of the National Guard, the victory will be ours!”

Victory! What victory? Oh, the bitter pain! Paris shedding the blood of France, France shedding the blood of Paris! From whatever side the triumph comes, will it not be accursed?

NOTES:

[33] On the 1st of April several shots were fired under the walls of Fort Issy, but it was not until the next day, the 2nd of April, at nine o’clock in the morning, that the action commenced in earnest at Courbevoie, by an attack of the Versailles army. The federals, who thought themselves masters of the place, were stopped by the steady firing of a regiment of gendarmerie and heavy cannonading from Mont ValÉrien. At first the National Guards retreated, then disputed every foot of ground with much courage. In the neighbourhood the desolation and misery was extreme.
The revolution had now entered a new phase; the military proceedings had begun, and it was about to be proved that, the Communist generals had even less genius than those of the DÉfense Nationale, although it must be admitted that the latter did not know the extent of the resources they had at their disposal. When we remember the small advantage those generals managed to derive from the heroism of the Parisian population, who, during the second siege showed that they knew how to fight and how to die, it is marvellous that many people have gone so far as to regret that the Émeute of the 31st of October was not successful, believing that if the Commune had triumphed at that time, Paris would have been saved. All this seems very doubtful now, and opinions have veered round considerably, for it is not such men as Duval, Cluseret, La CÉcilia, Eudes, or Bergeret, who could have protected Paris against the science of the Prussian generals.

---