Every hour that flies by, becomes more sinister than the last. They fight at Clamart as they fight at Neuilly, at Meudon and at Courbevoie. Everywhere rage the mitrailleuses, the cannon, and the rifle; the victories of the Communalists are lyingly proclaimed. The truth of their pretended triumphs will soon be known; and unhappily victory will be as detestable as defeat.

General Duval has been made prisoner and put to death. “If you had taken me,” asked General Vinoy, “would you not have shot me?”—“Without hesitation,” replied Duval. And Vinoy gave the word of command, “Fire!”

But this anecdote, though widely spread, is probably false. It is scarcely likely that a Commander-in-Chief of the Versailles troops would have consented to hold such a dialogue with an “insurgent.”

Flourens also is killed. Where and how is not yet known with any certainty. Several versions are given. Some speak of a ball in the head, or the neck, or the chest; others spread the report that his skull was cut open by a sword.

Flourens is thought about and talked of by men of the most opposite opinions. This singular man inspires no antipathy even amongst those who might hold him in the greatest detestation. I shall one day try to account for the partiality of opinion in favour of this young and romantic insurgent.

Duval shot, Flourens killed, Bergeret lying in the pangs of death; the enthusiasm of the Federals might well be cooled down. Not in the least! The battalions that march along the boulevards have the same resolute air, as they sing and shout “Vive la Commune!” Are they the dupes of their chiefs to that extent as to believe the pompous proclamations with their hourly announcements of attacks repelled, of redoubts taken, of soldiers of the line made prisoners? It is not probable. And besides, the guards of the respective quarters must see the return of those who have been to the fight, and whose anxious wives are waiting on the steps of the doors; must learn from them that the forward marches have in reality been routs, and that many dead and wounded have been left on the field, when the Commune reports only declare “losses of little importance.” Whence comes this ardour that the first rush and defeat cannot check? Is it nourished by the reports, true or false, of the cruelties of the Versaillais which are spread by the hundred? The “murder” of Duval, the “assassination” of Flourens, prisoners shot, vivandiÈres violated, all these culpable inventions—can they be inventions, or does civil war make such barbarians of us?—are indeed of a nature to excite the enthusiasm of hate, and the men march to a probable defeat with the same air as they would march to certain victory. Ah! whether led astray or not, whether guilty, even, or whatever the motive that impels them, they are brave! And when they pass thus they are grand. Yes! in spite of the rags that serve the greater number of them for uniforms, in spite of the drunken gait of some, as a whole they are superb! And the reason of the coldest partisan of order at any price, struggles in vain against the admiration which these men inspire as they march to their death.

It must be admitted, too, that there is much less disorder in the command than might be expected. The battalions all know whom they are to obey. Some go to the HÔtel de Ville, others to the Place VendÔme, many to the forts, a few to the advanced posts; marches and counter-marches are managed without confusion, and the combatants are in general well provided with ammunition, and supplied with provisions. Far as one is from esteeming the chiefs of the Federals, one is obliged to admit that there is something remarkable in this rapid organisation of a whole army in the midst of one of the most complete political convulsions. Who, then, directs? Who commands? The members of the Commune, divided as they are in opinion, do not appear capable, on account of their number and lamentable inexperience, of taking the sole lead in military affairs. Is there not some one either amongst them or in the background, who knows how to think, direct, and act? Is it Bergeret? Is it Cluseret? The future perhaps will unravel the mystery. In the meantime, and in spite of the reverses to which the Federals have had to submit during these last days, the whole of Paris unites in unanimous surprise at the extreme regularity with which the administrative system of the war seems to work, the surprise being the greater that, during the siege, the “legitimate” chiefs with much more powerful means, and having disciplined troops at their command, did not succeed in obtaining the same striking results.

But would it not have been better far that that order had never existed? Better a thousand times that the command had been less precise than that those commanded should have been led to a death without glory? For the last few days Neuilly, so joyous in times gone by with its busy shops, its frequented restaurants and princely parks; Neuilly, with the Versailles batteries on one side and the Paris guns on the other, under an incessant rain of shells and mitraille from Mont ValÉrien; Neuilly, with her bridge taken and re-taken, her barricades abandoned and re-conquered, has been for the last few days like a vast abyss, into which the Federal battalions, seized with mortal giddiness, are precipitated one after another. Each house is a fortress. Yesterday, the gendarmes had advanced as far as the market of Sablonville; this morning they were driven back beyond the church. Upon this church, a child; the son of Monsieur Leullier, planted a red flag amidst a shower of projectiles. “That child will make a true man,” said Cluseret, the war delegate. Ah, yes! provided he is not a corpse ere then. Shots are fired from window to window. A house is assaulted; there are encounters, on the stairs; it is a horrible struggle in which no quarter is given, night and day, through all hours. The rage and fury on both sides are terrific. Men that were friends a week ago have but one desire—to assassinate each other. An inhabitant of Neuilly, who succeeded in escaping, related this to me: Two enemies, a soldier of the line and a Federal, had an encounter in the bathing establishment of the Avenue de Neuilly, a little above the Rue des Huissiers. Now pursuing, now flying from each other in their bayonet-fight, they reached the roof of the house, and there, flinging down their arms, they closed in a mad struggle. On the sloping roof, the tiles of which crush beneath them, at a hundred feet from the ground, they struggled without mercy, without respite, until at last the soldier felt his strength give way, and endeavoured to escape from the gripe of his adversary. Then, the Federal—the person from whom I learnt this was at an opposite window and lost not a single one of their movements—the Federal drew a knife from his pocket and prepared himself to strike his half-prostrate antagonist, who, feeling that all hope was lost, threw himself flat on the roof, seized his enemy by the leg, and dragging him with him by a sudden movement, they rolled over and fell on to the pavement below. Neither was killed, but the soldier had his face crimsoned with blood and dust, and the Federal, who had fallen across his adversary, despatched him by plunging his knife in his chest.

Such is this infamous struggle! Such is this savage strife! Will it not cease until there is no more blood to shed? In the meantime, Paris of the boulevards, the elegant and fast-living Paris, lounges, strolls, and smiles. In spite of the numerous departures there are still enough blasÉ dandies and beauties of light locks and lighter reputation to bring the blush to an honest man’s cheek. The theatres are open; “La PiÈce du Pape” is being played. Do you know “The Pope’s Money?” It is a suitable piece for diverting the thoughts from the horrors of civil war. A year ago the Pope was supported by French bayonets, but his light coinage would not pass in Paris. Now Papal zouaves are killing the citizens of Paris, and we take light silver and lighter paper. The piece is flimsy enough. It is not its political significance that makes it diverting, but the double-entendre therein. One must laugh a little, you understand. Men are dying out yonder, we might as well laugh a little here. Low whispers in the baignoires, munching of sugared violets in the stage boxes—everything’s for the best. Mademoiselle NÉnuphar (named so by antithesis) is said to have the most beautiful eyes in the world. I will wager that that handsome man behind her has already compared them to mitraille shot, seeing the ravages they commit. It would be impossible to be more complimentary,—more witty and to the point. Ah! look you, those who are fighting at this moment, who to-day by their cannon and chassepots are exposing Paris to a terrible revenge, guilty as these men are, I hold them higher than those who roar with laughter when the whole city is in despair, who have not even the modesty to hide their joys from our distresses, and who amuse themselves openly with shameless women, while mothers are weeping for their children!

On the boulevards it is worse still; there, vice exhibits itself and triumphs. Is it then true what a young fellow, a poor student and bitter philosopher, said to me just now: “When all Paris is destroyed, when its houses, its palaces, and its monuments thrown down and crushed, strew its accursed soil and form but one vast ruin beneath the sky, then, from out of this shapeless mass will rise as from a huge sepulchre, the phantom of a woman, a skeleton dressed in a brilliant dress, with shoulders bared, and a toquet on its head; and this phantom, running from ruin to ruin, turning its head every now and then to see if some libertine is following her through the waste—this phantom is the leprous soul of Paris!”

When midnight approaches, the cafÉs are shut. The delegates of the Central Committee at the ex-prefecture have the habit of sending patrols of National Guards to hasten and overlook the closing of all public places. But this precaution, like so many others, is useless. There are secret doors which escape the closest investigations. When the shutters are put up, light filters through the interstices of the boards. Go close up to them, apply your eye to one of those lighted crevices, listen to the cannon roaring, the mitrailleuses horribly spitting, the musketry cracking, and then look into the interior of the closed rooms. People are talking, eating, and smoking; waiters go to and fro. There are women too. The men are gay and silly. Champagne bottles are being uncorked. “Ah! ah! it’s the fusillade!” Lovers and mistresses are in common here. This orgie has the most telling effect, I tell you, in the midst of the city loaded with maledictions, a few steps from the battle-field where the bayonets are dealing their death thrusts, and the shells are scattering blood. And later, after the laughter and the songs and the drink, they take an open carriage, if the night is fine, and go to the Champs ElysÉes, and there mount upon the box by the coachman to try and see the fight—if “those people” knew how to die as well as they know how to laugh it would be better for them.

Other bons viveurs, more discreet, hide themselves on the first floors of some houses and in some of the clubs. But they are betrayed by the sparkle of the chandeliers which pierces the heavy curtains. If you walk along by the walls you will hear the conversation of the gamesters and the joyous clink of the gold pieces.

Ah! the cowardice of the merry ones! Oh, thrice pardonable anger of those who starve!