him palatable, is to salt, or rather to pepper him; that is, to cut him
up in slices, and leave them for a fortnight, bestrewing them very
liberally with pepper-corns. Then, before 'accommodating' them finally,
put them into boiling water for a while, and throw the water away.

"No such compromises are necessary with 'the fauna of the tiles,' who,
with his larger-sized victim, the rat, has been the most misprized and
misjudged of all animals, from the culinary point of view. Stewed puss
is by far more delicious than stewed rabbit. The flesh of the former
tastes less pungent than that of the latter, and is more tender. As for
the prejudice against cat, well, the Germans have the same prejudice
against rabbit, and while I was in the Foreign Legion there was a
Wurtemberger, a lieutenant, who would not touch bunny, but who would
devour grimalkin. Those who have not tasted couscoussou of cat, prepared
according to the Arabian recipe--though the Arabs won't touch it--have
never tasted anything."[86]

         [Footnote 86: The Arab _kuskus_ generally consists of a piece
         of mutton baked in a paste with the vegetables of the season,
         flavoured with herbs; and the addition of half a dozen
         hard-boiled eggs. The whole of the flesh is boned.--EDITOR.]

Our friend said much more, notably with regard to rat and horseflesh;
and then he wound up: "But what is the good? Those who might benefit by
my advice are not here, and, if they were, they would probably scorn it;
I mean the very poor. The only item of animal food which cannot be
adequately replaced by something else yielding as much or nearly as much
nourishment is milk. But, unless an adult be in delicate health or
suffering from ailments to the alleviation and cure of which milk is
absolutely necessary, he may very well go without it for six months. Not
so children. I am only showing you that the poor, with their slender
resources--and Heaven knows they are slender enough--might do better
than they are doing, for cats and rats must still be very plentiful,
only they won't touch them."

The reference to the very poor and their slender resources recurred more
than once that evening, but I knew that the authorities were trying to
do all they could in the way of relieving general and individual
distress, and that they were admirably seconded by private charity,
which not only placed comparatively large sums at their disposal, but
bestirred itself by means of specially appointed committees and
visitors. The rations of meat (horsemeat) and bread distributed were not
sufficient. The first had already fallen to forty-five grammes per day
per head, the second to three hundred and fifty grammes;[87] they were
to fall much lower. Tickets were also distributed for set meals, with
and without meat. There was, furthermore, a distribution of fuel, albeit
that there was really no more fuel to distribute. All the wooden seats
in the public thoroughfares, the scaffoldings before the half-finished
buildings had disappeared. At one of my friend's apartments there was
none but the outer door left, all the others had been replaced by
curtains. They had been chopped up to keep his family warm. The fear of
the terrible landlord may have prevented the poor from imitating this
proceeding. At any rate, I noticed no absent doors in my visits to any
of them. A further supply of meat or bread, even if they had the money,
was out of the question for them; because, though some shops remained
open and their owners were compelled to sell according to the tariff set
forth by the municipality, they had nothing to sell. I remember being in
the Rue Lafayette one morning, near one of those shops, when I saw the
whole of the crowd, that had been waiting there for hours probably, turn
away disappointed. The assistant had just told them that "this morning
we have nothing to sell but preserved truffles."

         [Footnote 87: Five hundred French grammes make seventeen ounces
         English, and a fraction.--EDITOR.]

At the same time, I am bound to note the fact that, at the slightest
rumours of peace, the usually empty windows became filled with
artistically arranged pyramids of "canned" provisions, at prices
considerably below those charged twenty-four hours before, and even
below those mentioned in the municipal tariff. Frequent attempts were
made by the police to discover the hiding-places for this stock, but
they failed in every instance. Those hiding-places were far away from
the shops, and the shopkeepers themselves were too wary to be caught
napping. A stranger might have safely gone in and offered a hundred
francs for half a dozen tins of their wares. They would have looked a
perfect blank, and told him they had none to sell: and no wonder; their
detection would have meant certain death; no earthly power could have
saved them from the legitimate fury of the populace. And even those who
bought the hidden food at abnormal prices were compelled to preserve
silence, at the risk of seeing their supplies cut off. One thing is
certain, and I can unhesitatingly vouch for it. My name had become known
in connection with several committees for the relief of the poor. On the
25th of January, at 11 a.m., when the negotiations between Bismarck and
M. Jules Favre could have been but in the preliminary stage, I received
a note, brought by hand, from a grocer in the Faubourg Montmartre,
asking me to call personally, as he had something to communicate which
might be to the advantage of my protégés. An hour later, I was at his
establishment, and he offered to sell me five hundred tins of various
provisions and two hundred and fifty boxes of sardines at two francs
each. It was something like double the ordinary price. A little more
than three weeks before that date, I had sent a letter to the same man,
asking him for a similar quantity of goods, which I intended to
distribute as New Year's gifts. The reply was, that he had none, but
that he might _possibly_ procure them at the rate of five francs a tin
and box. I found out afterwards, that the excellent grocer had a son at
the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. I need not point out the logical
deduction.

I am equally certain that there were large quantities of horseflesh,
salted or fresh, hidden somewhere; for, as I have already noted, it was
officially, or at any rate semi-officially stated, that, on the day of
the conclusion of the armistice, there were thirty thousand live horses
in Paris, and the greater part of these would have been slaughtered by
order of the Government, if the measure had been thought expedient, for
there is scarcely any need to say that the pretext of their being wanted
for military purposes would not hold water. A sixth part of them, or
less, would have been amply sufficient for that. In reality, M. Favre
and his colleagues were, by this time, fully convinced that all further
resistance was useless, but they had not the courage to say so frankly,
and they wished to convert the advocates of "resistance to death" to
their side by aggravating the scarcity of the food supply, as if it were
not bad enough already. The horses confiscated by the Government for
food were paid for by them at the rate of between one and two francs per
pound, yet there was no possibility of buying a single pound of
horseflesh, beyond what was distributed at the municipal canteens, for
less than seven or eight francs. Whence this difference?

Butter could be bought for thirty to thirty-five francs per pound, but
such butter! Anything worth eating commanded sixty francs. There was a
kind of grease that fetched two francs per pound, but even the poorest
shrank from it, and preferred to eat dry bread, which was composed as
follows:--

  (FOR A LOAF OF 300 GRAMMES.)

  75 grammes of wheat.
  15     "      rye, barley, or peas.
  60     "      rice.
  90     "      oats.
  30     "      chopped straw mixed with starch.
  30     "      bran.

As for the rest, here are some of the prices--at which, however, things
were not always to be had:--

                                          frs.
  A dog or a cat                            20
  A rat, crow, or sparrow               3 or 4
  1 lb. of bear's flesh                     12
  1 lb. of venison                          14
  1 lb. of wolf's flesh, or porcupine's      8
  A rabbit                                  40
  A fowl                                    40
  A pigeon                                  25
  A goose                                   80
  A turkey                                 100
  1 lb. of ham (very rare)                  10
  1 lb. of bacon (not so rare)               6
  Eggs (each)                                5
  Haricot beans (per litre)                  8
  Cabbages (each)                           16
  Leeks (each)                               1
  Bushel of carrots (2-3/4 gallons)         75
  Bushel of potatoes                        35
  Bushel of onions                          80

Still, until the very last, there occurred, as far as I know, no case of
actual starvation, and I was pretty well posted up in that respect. The
very young and very old suffered most: for the milk that was sold at two
francs per litre was simply disgraceful, three-fourths of it was water;
and beef-tea, or that worthy of the name, was not to be had at any
price. Both commodities were distributed to the poor at the municipal
canteens, on the certificate of a doctor; but the latter, though by no
means hard-hearted, and thoroughly sympathetic with the ills he was
scarcely able to alleviate, had to draw the line somewhere. Of bedding,
bed-linen, and warm underclothing there was little or no lack; but the
cold, for several days, at frequent intervals was severe to a degree.

Our ex-lieutenant's reference to the poor and their slender resources
recurred frequently to my mind for several days after the scene
described above, and set me wondering how far the poor had parted,
finally or temporarily, with their household goods and small valuables
in order to obtain some of the quasi-luxuries I have just enumerated. In
order to get at the truth of the matter, I determined to pay a visit to
the central pawnbroking office in the Rue des Blancs Manteaux. I
provided myself with a letter of introduction to the director, who
placed an official at my disposal. This was towards the latter end of
December.

I transcribe my informant's statement in brief and from memory, but I am
positive as to main facts. Up till the end of August the transactions at
the central office, which virtually include those of the whole of the
capital, presented nothing abnormal, but the moment the investment
became an almost foregone conclusion, there was a positive run on the
Mont-de-Piété. The applicants for loans, however, were by no means of
the poorest or even of the lower-middle class, but the well-to-do
people, whose chief aim was to place their valuables in safety, and who
looked upon the 9-1/2 per cent. interest they had to pay on the advances
received as a premium for warehousing and insurance. They knew that
nothing could be more secure than the fire and burglar proof receptacles
of the Mont-de-Piété, and that, come what might, the State would be
responsible for the value of the articles deposited.

This run ceased when the investment was an accomplished fact, but, as a
matter of course, the financial resources had been put to a severe test,
and, at the time my informant spoke to me, they had dwindled from nearly
eight millions of francs, at which they were computed in the beginning
of August, to about three-quarters of a million. The order of the mayor
of Paris, intended to prevent this, had come too late. The decree of
1863, limiting the maximum of a loan to ten thousand francs at the chief
office, and to five hundred francs at any of the auxiliary ones, had
been suspended in favour of a decision that, during the investment, no
loan should exceed fifty francs.[88] From the 19th of September to the
end of October, the cessation from _all_ labour, and, consequently, the
non-receipt of wages throughout the capital, had to be faced in the
acceptance of thousands of pledges, consisting of household goods,
apparel, etc.; but, curiously enough, workmen's tools and implements
formed but a small proportion of these. At present, the whole of the
business was at a standstill; there was no redemption of pledges, and
few were offered.[89]

         [Footnote 88: A similar measure had been decided upon in 1814,
         under analogous circumstances, but the maximum was twenty
         francs instead of fifty francs.--EDITOR.]

         [Footnote 89: A curious feature in connection with the pledging
         of tools and implements may be recorded here. At the
         termination of the siege, a committee in London transmitted
         20,000 francs (£800) for the express purpose of redeeming
         these. The Paris committee entrusted with the task, while
         grateful for the solicitude shown, rightly considered that it
         would not _go_ very far, considering that, at the time, the
         Mont-de-Piété held a total of 1,708,549 articles, representing
         loans to the amount of 37,502,743 francs. The authorities took
         particular pains to publish the receipt of the 20,000 francs,
         and the purposes thereof. Within a given time, they returned
         6,430 francs to the committee. Only 2,383 tools (or sets of
         tools) had been redeemed, representing a lent value of 13,570
         francs.]

Meanwhile, Christmas and the New Year were at hand, and not a single
sortie had led to any practical modification of the situation. The cold
was intense. Coal and coke could be obtained for neither money nor love.
The street lamps had not been lighted for nearly a month; up till the
end of October, one had been lighted here and there; then there had been
an attempt to supply the absence of gas by paraffin in the public
thoroughfares, but the stock of mineral oil was also getting lower. Most
of the shops were closed, but, at the advent of the festive season, a
few took down their shutters and made a feeble display of bonbons in
sugar and chocolate, and even of marrons glacés. I doubt whether these
articles found many purchasers. The toy-shops never took the trouble of
exhibiting at all. They were wise in their abstention, for even the most
ignorant Parisian was aware that nine-tenths of the wares in these
establishments hailed from Germany, and he would assuredly have smashed
the windows if they had been offered for sale. Nay, the booths that make
their appearance on the Boulevards at that time of the year displayed
few toys, except of a military kind. It was very touching, in after
years, to hear the lads and lassies refer to the 1st of January, 1871,
as _the New Year's Day without the New Year's gifts_.

Nevertheless, it must not be thought that Paris was given over to
melancholy on these two days. Crowds perambulated the streets and sat in
the cafés. In spite of all that has been said by ultra-patriotic
writers, I am inclined to think that the Parisians no longer cherished
any illusions about the possibility of retrieving their disasters,
though many may have thought that the besiegers would abstain, at the
last moment, from shelling the city. The Government--whether with the
intention of cheering the besieged or for the purpose of exhausting
their stock of provisions as quickly as possible, in order to capitulate
with better grace--had made the city a magnificent New Year's gift of

  104,000 kilogrammes of preserved beef,
   52,000       "     " dried haricot beans,
   52,000       "     " olive oil,
   52,000       "     " coffee (not roasted),
   52,000       "     " chocolate;

which gift elicited the reply of a group of artists and littérateurs
that, though thankful for their more epicurean brethren and sisters,
they, the littérateurs and artists, had fared very well on Christmas Day
and would meet again on New Year's Day to discuss the following menu:--

  "Consommé de Cheval au millet.
  Brochettes de Foie de Chien à la Maître d'Hôtel.
  Émincé de Râble de Chat, Sauce Mayonnaise.
  Épaules et Filets de Chien braisés à la Sauce Tomate.
  Civet de Chat aux Champignons.
  Cotelettes de Chien aux Champignons.
  Gigots de Chien flanqués de Ratons.
  Sauce Poivrade.
  Bégonias au Jus.
  Plum-pudding au Rhum et à la Moelle de Cheval."

Simultaneously with the publication of the menu, a dealer in the St.
Germain Market put up a new signboard:--

  "RÉSISTANCE À OUTRANCE.

  "GRANDE BOUCHERIE CANINE ET FÉLINE.

  "L'héroïque Paris brave les Prussiens;
  Il ne sera jamais vaincu par la famine!
  Quand il aura mangé la race chevaline
  Il mangera ses rats, et ses chats, et ses chiens."

The proprietor of a cookshop in the Rue de Rome had confined himself to
prose, but prose which, to those who could read it aright, was much
cleverer than the poetry of his transpontine fellow-tradesman.

  "VIN À DIX-HUIT SOUS ET EAU-DESSUS,
  Rosse Beef.
  Rat Goût de Mouton."[90]

         [Footnote 90: Here are the two English readings, as far as I am
         able to give them:--

           "WINE AT EIGHTEEN SOUS THE LITRE AND UPWARDS.
            Roast Beef.
            Ragout of Mutton."

           "WINE AT EIGHTEEN SOUS THE LITRE AND WATER ATOP.
            Old Crock's Flesh.
            Rat Tasting of Mutton."--EDITOR.]

Personally, I have eaten the flesh of elephants, wolves, cassowaries,
porcupines, bears, kangaroos, rats, cats, and horses. I did not touch
dog's-flesh knowingly after I had been warned by our ex-lieutenant. The
proprietor of the English butcher-shop, M. Debos, who was not an
Englishman at all, supplied most of these strange dishes; for he bought
nearly all the animals from the Zoological Gardens at tremendous prices.
These were only the animals from the Jardin d'Acclimatation in the Bois,
which had been sent as guests to the Jardin des Plantes. The elephants
belonged to the latter establishment, and were sold to M. Debos for
twenty-seven thousand francs. In January I was elected a member of the
Jockey Club, but I had dined there once before by special invitation. I
give the menu as far as I remember:--

  "Soupe au Poireau.
  Aloyau de Boeuf.
  Poule au Riz.
  Flageolets aux Jus.
  Biscuits de Reims glacés.
  Charlotte aux Pommes."

In spite of the hope that Paris would escape being shelled, minute
instructions how to act, in the event of such a calamity, had been
posted on the walls. In fact, if speechifying and the promulgation of
decrees could have saved the city, Trochu first, and the rest
afterwards, would have so saved it. But I have solemnly promised myself
at the outset of these notes not to be betrayed into any criticism of
the military operations, and I will endeavour to keep my promise to
myself.

The first and foremost result of those directions on the part of the
Government was a display of water-butts, filled to the brim, in the
passage, and of sand-heaps in the yard of every building. As the months
went by, and there was no sign of a bombardment, the contents of the
casks became so much solid ice, and the sand-heaps disappeared beneath
the accumulated snow, to be converted into slush and mire at the first
thaw, which gave us, at the same time, a kind of miniature deluge,
because, as a matter of course, the barrels had sprung leaks which were
not attended to at the time.

And when, early on the 5th of January, the first projectiles crashed
down upon some houses in the south of Paris, the people were simply
astonished, but still deluded themselves into the belief that it was a
mistake, that the "trajectory" had been miscalculated, and the shells
had carried farther than was intended. To a certain extent they had good
grounds for their supposition. They had heard the big cannon boom and
roar at frequent intervals ever since the morning of the 27th of
December, and been given to understand that it was merely a big
artillery duel for the possession of the plateau d'Avron, between the
positions of Noisy-le-Grand and Gournay on the enemy's side, and the
forts of Nogent, Rosny, and Noisy on that of the French. They were,
furthermore, under the impression that the shelling of the city would be
preceded by a final summons to surrender: they had got that notion
mostly from their military dramas and popular histories. But there were
men, better informed than the majority of the masses, who made sure
that, if not the Parisians themselves, the foreign consuls and the
aliens under their charge would receive a sufficiently timely notice, in
order to leave the city if they felt so minded.

The 5th of January was a bitterly cold day; it had been freezing hard
during the whole of the night, and, as I wended my way across the Seine,
about noon, the mist, which had been hanging over the river, was slowly
rising in banked and jagged masses, with only a rift here and there for
the pitilessly glacial sun to peer through and mock at our shivering
condition. When I got to the Boulevard Montparnasse, I met several
stretchers, bearing sentries who had been absolutely frozen to within an
ace of death.

I know nothing of the military import of a bombardment, but have been
told that even the greatest strategists only count upon the moral effect
it produces upon the besieged inhabitants. I can only say this: if
Marshal von Moltke took the "moral effect" of his projectiles into his
calculations to accelerate the surrender of Paris, he might have gone on
shelling Paris for a twelvemonth without being one whit nearer his aim;
that is, if I am to judge by the scene I witnessed on that January
morning, before familiarity with the destruction-dealing shells could
have produced the proverbial contempt. At the risk of offending all the
sensation-mongers, foreign and native, with pen or with pencil, I can
honestly say that a broken-down omnibus and a couple of prostrate horses
would have excited as much curiosity as did the sight of the battered
tenements at Vaugirard, Montrouge, and Vanves. On the Chaussée du Maine,
the roadway had been ploughed up for a distance of about half a dozen
yards by a shell; in another spot, a shell had gone clean through the
roof and killed a woman by the side of her husband; in a third, a shell
had carried away part of the wall of a one-storied cottage, and the
whole of the opposite wall: in short, there was more than sufficient
evidence that life was no longer safe within the fortifications, and yet
there was no wailing, no wringing of hands, no heart-rending frenzied
look of despair, either pent up or endeavouring to find vent in shrieks
and yells, nay, not even on the part of the women. There was merely a
kind of undemonstrative contempt--very unlike the usual French way of
manifesting it--blended with a considerable dash of _badauderie_,--for
which word I cannot find an English equivalent, because the Parisian
loafer or idler is unlike any of his European congeners. To grasp the
difference between the former and the latter, one must have had the good
fortune to see the same incident in the streets of Paris, London,
Madrid, Florence, and Rome, Vienna, Berlin, and St. Petersburg, not to
mention Brussels, the Hague, Amsterdam, Munich, and Dresden. The
"Monsieur Prudhomme" of Charles Monnier shows but one facet of the Paris
badaud's character. The nearest approach to him is the middle-class
English tourist on the Continent, who endeavours to explain to his wife
and companions things he does not know himself, and blesses his stars
aloud for having made him an Englishman.

But even the Paris badaud, who is not unlike his Roman predecessor in
his craving for circuses, must have bread; and when the cry arises, a
fortnight later, that "there is no more bread," the siege is virtually
at an end.

CHAPTER XXIV.

     Some men of the Commune -- Cluseret -- His opinion of Rossel --
     His opinion of Bergeret -- What Cluseret was fighting for --
     Thiers and Abraham Lincoln -- Raoul Rigault on horseback --
     Théophile Ferré -- Ferré and Gil-Pérès, the actor -- The comic
     men of the Commune -- Gambon -- Jourde, one of the most valuable
     of the lot -- His financial abilities -- His endeavours to save
     -- Jourde at Godillot's -- Colonel Maxime Lisbonne -- The
     Editor's recollections of him -- General Dombrowski and General
     la Cécilia -- A soirée at the Tuileries -- A gala-performance at
     the Opéra Comique -- The death-knell of the Commune.

I have before now spoken of a young medical student in whose company I
spent several evenings at a café on the Boulevard St. Michel, during the
Empire. He, like myself, remained in Paris during the siege, and refused
to stir at the advent of the Commune. As a matter of course, whenever we
met, while the latter lasted, we rarely spoke of anything else. He
sympathized, to a certain extent, with the principle, though not with
the would-be expounders of it. I knew few, if any, of the leaders even
by sight, though I had heard of some, such as, for instance, Jules
Vallès, in connection with their literary work. My admiration was
strictly confined to those performances, and I often said so to my
friend. "You are mistaken in your estimate of them," he invariably
replied. "There are men of undoubted talent among them, for instance,
Cluseret; but most of them are like square pegs in round holes. Come
with me to-night, and you will be able to judge for yourself; for he is
sure to be at the Brasserie Saint-Séverin."

I had never been to the Brasserie Saint-Séverin, though I had paid two
or three visits several years before to the café de la Renaissance
opposite the Fontaine Saint-Michel, at which establishment the Commune
may be said to have been hatched. It was there that, in 1866, Raoul
Rigault, Longuet, the brothers Levraud, Dacosta, Genton, Protot, and a
dozen more were arrested by the Commissary of Police, M. Clément.

That night, about eight o'clock, we crossed the Pont Saint-Michel, and,
in a minute or so, found ourselves amidst some of the shining lights of
the Commune.

Save on review days I had never seen so many brilliant uniforms gathered
together. As far as I can recollect, there was only one civilian in the
group pointed out to me. He looked a mere skeleton, was misshapen, and
one of the ugliest men I have ever met. I asked his name, and was told
it was Tridon. The name was perfectly familiar to me as belonging to one
of the most remarkable polemists during the late régime. A little while
afterwards, Cluseret came in.

My friend introduced me, and we sat talking for more than two hours; and
I have rarely been more interested than I was that night. Cluseret spoke
English very well, for he had been in America several years, and our
conversation was carried on in that language. I have already remarked
that I had no intention, at that time, to jot down my recollections,
still I was so impressed with what I had heard that I made some rough
memoranda when I got home. They are among the papers I have preserved.

Cluseret fostered no illusions as to the final upshot of the Commune.
"If every man were as devoted to the cause as Kossuth and Garibaldi were
to theirs, we should not be able to establish a permanent Commune; but
this is by no means the case. Most of the leaders, even those who are
not self-seekers, are too visionary in their aims; they will not abate
one jot of their ideal. The others think of nothing but their own
aggrandisement, and though many are no doubt capable to a degree, they
are absolutely useless for the posts they have chosen for themselves.
There are certainly exceptions; such as, for instance, Rossel. His
technical knowledge is very considerable. If I had to describe him in
two words, I should call him Lothario-Cromwell. For, notwithstanding his
military aptitudes and his Puritan stiffness in many things, he has too
many petticoats about him. In addition to this, he is overbearing and
absolutely eaten up with ambition; he is a republican who despises the
proletariat; he would fain imitate the axiom of Napoléon I., 'The tools
to those who can use them;' but he forgets that it will not do for a
socialistic régime such as we would establish, because it is exactly
those that cannot use the tools who wish to be treated as if they could.
If they had intelligence enough to use the tools, they would have lifted
themselves out of their humble, unsatisfactory positions without any
aid. Rossel is no doubt a better strategist than I am, and I do not in
the least mind his letting me know it, but if Dombrowski or Bergeret was
'Delegate for War,' Rossel would have been in prison or shot a fortnight
ago."

"For," continued Cluseret, "Bergeret especially thinks himself a
heaven-born general. He shows well on horseback, because, I believe, he
began life as a stable-lad: so did Michel Ney; but then, Michel Ney
served his apprenticeship at fighting, while Bergeret became a
compositor, a chef-de-claque, a proof-reader, and, finally, a traveller
for a publishing firm. All these are, no doubt, very honourable
occupations, but they are scarcely calculated to make a good general.
Still, you should see him: he wears his sash as your officers wear
theirs when on duty; he would like the people to mistake it for the
grand-cordon of the Légion d'Honneur; and his staff is more numerous
than that of the late Emperor. You should go and dine at the
head-quarters of the military governor of Paris; I am sure you would be
very welcome. Marast at the Palais-Bourbon in '48 was nothing to it. If
the Commune lasts another three months there will be servants in livery,
gold lace, and powder, like in your country. At present, Bergeret has to
put up with attendants in faultless black.

"Personally," he went on, "I am not fighting for Communism, but for
Communalism, which, I need not tell you, is quite a different thing. I
fail to see why Paris and Lyons should be judged incapable of managing
their own municipal affairs without the interference of the State, while
other great provincial centres are considered capable of doing so. The
English Government does not interfere with the municipal affairs of
London on the plea that it is the capital, with those of Manchester on
the plea that it has inaugurated a policy of its own, any more than it
interferes with those of Liverpool, Leeds, or Bristol. Your
lord-lieutenants of counties are virtually decorative officials,
something different from our prefects and our sub-prefects, and your
Home Secretary has not a hundredth part of the power of our Minister of
the Interior. We wish to go a step further than you, without, however,
shirking the financial obligations imposed by a federation. What you
would call imperial taxes, we are willing to pay in kind as well as
money. This is one of the things we do want; what we do not want is the
resuscitation of the Empire. I am not speaking at random when I tell
you that there are rumours about traitors in our camp, and that,
according to these rumours, the struggle against the Versaillese troops
would be a mere pretext to sweep the deck for the unopposed entry of an
imperial army into Paris. Whence would that army be recruited? From
among the prisoners going to leave Germany, who have been worked all the
while in the interest of the Napoleonic dynasty. After all, we have as
much right to overthrow the Government of Versailles as the Government
of Versailles had the right to upset the Empire. Their powers are by no
means more valid by virtue of the recent elections, than was the power
of Louis-Napoléon by virtue of the plébiscite of 1870. Does M. Thiers
really think that he is a better or greater man than Abraham Lincoln,
who treated the Southerns as belligerents, not as insurgents?"

So far Cluseret. I am not prepared to say that he was a strictly
honourable man, but he was a very intelligent one, probably the most
intelligent among the leaders of the Commune. At any rate, his
conversation made me anxious to get a nearer sight of some of the
latter, and, as they had evidently made the Brasserie Saint-Séverin
their principal resort of an evening, I returned thither several times.

A few nights afterwards, I was just in time to witness the arrival of
Raoul Rigault, on horseback, accompanied by a staff running by the side
of his animal. The whole reminded me irresistibly of Decamp's picture,
"La Patrouille Turque." The Prefect of Police was scarcely less
magnificently attired than the rest of his fellow-dignitaries. His
uniform, if I remember rightly, was blue with red facings, but it is
impossible to say, because it was covered everywhere with gold lace. His
myrmidons hustled the crowd in order to make room for their chief, and
some one laughed: "Mais il n'y a rien de changé; c'est absolument comme
sous l'Empire." For a moment Rigault sat quite still, surveying the
crowd and ogling the women through his double eye-glasses. Then he
alighted, and caught sight of my friend and myself standing on the
threshold. "Quels sont ces citoyens?" he inquired, taking us in from top
to toe, and stroking his long beard all the while. Some one told him our
names, at which he made a wry face, the more that mine must have been
familiar to him, seeing that a very near relative of mine, bearing the
same, had been a special favourite with General Vinoy. He did not think
fit to molest us; had he done so, it might have fared badly with us,
for by the time Lord Lyons could have interfered, we might have been
shot.

Ever since, my friend and I have been under the impression that we owed
our lives to a dark, ugly little man who, at that moment, whispered
something to him, and who, my friend told me, immediately afterwards,
was the right hand of Raoul Rigault, Théophile Ferré. That name was also
familiar to me, as it was to most Parisians, previous to the outbreak of
the war, because Ferré was implicated in the plot against
Louis-Napoléon's life, and was tried in the early part of '70 at Blois.
Every one knew how he insulted the President, how he refused to answer,
and finally exclaimed, "Yes, I am an anarchist, a socialist, an atheist,
and woe to you when our turn comes." He kept his word; he was a fiend,
and looked one. Whenever there was anything cruel and bloodthirsty going
on, he made it a point to be present. He was, though ugly, not half so
ugly as Tridon, but one involuntarily recoiled from him.

Curiously enough, this very Théophile Ferré, whom I then saw for the
first time, had been the subject of a conversation I had with Gil-Pérès,
the actor of the Palais-Royal, on the 25th or 26th of March. I had known
Gil-Pérès from the moment he made his mark in "La Dame aux Camélias" as
Gaudens. To my great surprise, a day or two after the proclamation of
the Commune, I heard that he had been cruelly maltreated in the Rue
Drouot, that he had narrowly escaped being killed. Two days later, I
paid him a visit in his lodgings at Montmartre; for he had been
severely, though not dangerously hurt, and was unable to leave his bed.

"I am very sorry for your mishap," I said; "but what, in Heaven's name,
induced you to meddle with politics?"

He burst out laughing, in that peculiar laugh of his which I have never
heard before or since, on or off the stage. The nearest approach to it
was that of Grassot, but the latter's was like a discharge of artillery,
while Gil-Pérès was like that of a musketry volley.

"I did not meddle with politics," he replied; "but you know how fond I
am of going among crowds to study character. This day last week, I was
passing along the Rue Drouot, when I saw a large group in front of the
Mairie. I had left home early in the morning, I knew nothing of what was
going on in my neighbourhood, so you may imagine my surprise when I
heard them calmly discussing the death of Clément Thomas and Lecomte.
My hair stood positively on end, and I must have pushed a bit in order
to get nearer the speakers. I had a long black coat on, and they mistook
me for a curé. I did all I could to tell them my name, but, before I
could utter a word, I was down, and they began trampling on me. Some
one, God alone knows who, saved me, by telling them my name. I knew
nothing more, for I was brought home unconscious. And to think," he
added, "that I might have been a member of the Commune myself, if I had
liked."

"What do you mean?" I said, for I began to think that he was out of his
mind.

"Well, you know that during the siege I tried to do my duty as a
National Guard, and in my battalion was this Théophile Ferré of whom you
have already heard. A most intelligent creature, but poor as Job and
ferocious to a degree. He was a study to me, and, of late, he frequently
came to see me in the morning. I generally asked him to stay to
breakfast, for I liked to hear him talk of the future Commune, though I
had not the slightest faith in his visions. I considered him a downright
lunatic. About two or three days before this outbreak, he came, one
morning, looking as pale as a ghost, but evidently very much excited.
Before I had time to ask him the cause of his emotion, he exclaimed,
'This time there is no mistake about it; we are the masters.' I suppose
my face must have looked a perfect blank, for he proceeded to explain.
'In two days we'll hold our sittings at the Hôtel-de-Ville, and the
Commune will be proclaimed. And now,' he added, 'what can I do for you,
citoyen Gil-Pérès? You have always been very kind to me, and I am not
likely to forget it when I am at the top of the tree.'

"I told him that I'd feel much obliged to him if he could induce Sardou
or Dumas to write me a good part, like the latter had done before,
because I wanted to be something more than a comic actor. But I saw that
he was getting angry.

"'Do you mean to tell me,' he almost hissed, 'that you do not want to
belong to the Commune?'

"'I haven't the slightest ambition that way,' I replied. 'People would
only make fun of me, and they would be perfectly right.'

"'Why should people make fun of you?'

"'Because, because----' I stammered.

"He left me no time to finish. 'Because you are a small man,' he said.
'Well, I am a small man, too, and an ugly one into the bargain. I can
assure you that the world will hear as much of me before long as if I
had been an Adonis and a Hercules.' With this he disappeared, and I have
not seen him since."

My purpose in reporting this conversation is to show that the Commune,
with all its evils, might have been prevented by the so-called
government of Versailles, if its members had been a little less eager to
get their snug berths comfortably settled.

To return for a moment to Ferré and his companions, who, without
exception, were sober to a degree, though many were probably fond of
good cheer. The English writers, often very insufficiently informed,
have generally maintained the contrary, but I know for a fact that,
among the leaders of the movement, drunkenness was unknown. Ferré
himself was among the soberest of the lot: the few evenings I saw him he
drank either cold coffee or some cordial diluted with water.
Nevertheless, it was he who was directly responsible for the death of
Archbishop Darboy, whom he could and might have saved.

In every modern tragedy there is a comic element, and in that of the
Commune the comic parts were, to a certain extent, sustained by Gambon,
Jourde, and a few others whom it is not necessary to mention. Gambon was
one of the mildest of creatures, and somewhat of a "communard malgré
lui." He would have willingly "left the settlement of all these vexed
questions to moral force," and he proposed once or twice a mission to
Versailles to that effect. He was about fifty, and a fine specimen of a
robust, healthy farmer. His love of "peaceful settlement" arose from an
experiment he had made in that way during the Empire, though it is very
doubtful whether strictly logical reasoners would have looked upon it as
"peaceful." Gambon had been a magistrate and a member of the National
Assembly during the Second Republic, and voted with the conservative
side. The advent of the Empire made an end of his parliamentary career,
and, in order to mark his disapproval of the Coup-d'État and its sequel,
Gambon refused to pay his taxes. The authorities seized one of his cows,
and were proceeding to sell it by auction, when Gambon, accompanied by a
good many of his former constituents, appeared on the scene. "This cow,"
he shouts, "has been stolen from me by the Imperial fisc, and whosoever
buys it is nothing more than a thief himself." Result: not a single bid
for the cow, and the auctioneer was compelled to adjourn the sale for a
week. The auctioneer deemed it prudent to transport the cow to a
neighbouring commune, but Gambon had got wind of the affair, and adopted
the same expedient of moral persuasion. For nearly three months the
auctioneer transported the cow from one commune to another, and Gambon
followed him everywhere, until they reached the limits of the
department. Gambon apprehended that moral persuasion would have no
effect among strangers, and he let things take their course. The cost of
selling the cow amounted to about ten times its worth. As a matter of
course, the whole affair was revived by "les journaux bien pensants" at
the advent of the Commune, and Gambon was elected a member by the 10th
Arrondissement. Gambon managed to escape into Switzerland; but when the
amnesty was proclaimed, he returned, and solicited once more the
suffrages of his former constituents. At the Brasserie Saint-Séverin,
Gambon was generally to be found at the ladies' table, about the
occupants of which I cannot speak, seeing that I was not introduced to
them.

Jourde was one of two "financial delegates" of the Commune. He had been
a superior employé at the Bank of France, and was considered an
authority on financial affairs. It was he to whom the Marquis de Ploeuc,
the governor of the Bank, had handed the first million for the use of
the Commune. My friend, the doctor, had known him in his former
capacity, and often invited him to our table, to which invitation the
"paymaster-general" always eagerly responded. One evening, the
conversation turned upon the events which had preceded the request for
funds. "On the second day of the Commune," he said, "the want of money
began to be horribly felt. Eudes proposed that I should go and fetch
some from the Bank of France. To be perfectly candid, I did not care
about it. Had I been a soldier, I might have invaded the Bank at the
head of a regiment; but, to go and ask my former chief for a million or
so as a matter of course, was a different thing, and I had not the moral
courage. The director of the Bank of France is very little short of a
god to his subordinates, and, in spite of our boasted 'Liberty,
Fraternity, and Equality,' there is no nation so ready to bow down
before its governors as the French. Seeing that I hung back, Eudes
proposed to go himself, and did, refusing to take a single soldier with
him. But he did not want the responsibility of handling the million of
francs the governor placed at our disposal, so I was, after all, obliged
to beard my former chief in his own den. He was very polite, and called
me 'Monsieur le délégué aux finances,' but I would have preferred his
calling me all the names in the world, for I caught sight of a very
ironical smile at the corners of his mouth when, on taking leave of him,
he said, 'You may be my successor one day, Monsieur le délégué, and I
hope you will profit by the lessons I have always endeavoured to teach
my subordinates: obedience to the powers that be.'"

Jourde was by no means a fool or a braggart; he was a very good
administrator, and exceedingly conscientious. Like most men who have had
the constant handling of important sums of money, he was absolutely
indifferent to it; and I feel certain that he did not feather his own
nest during the two months he had the chance. But he vainly endeavoured
to impress upon the others the necessity for economy. Every now and then
he tore his red hair and beard at the waste going on at the
Hôtel-de-Ville, where, in the beginning, Assi was keeping open table.
Not that they were feasting, but every one who had a mind could sit
down, and, though the sum charged by the steward was moderate, two
francs for breakfast and two francs fifty centimes for dinner, the
number of self-invited guests increased day by day, and the
paymaster-general was at his wits' end to keep pace with the expenses.
The Central-Committee put a stop to this indiscriminate hospitality by
simply arresting Assi, whom I never saw.

When the Commune decreed the demolition of the Vendôme column, Jourde
was still more angry and in despair. He was, first of all, opposed to
its destruction, from a patriotic and common-sense point of view:
secondly, he objected to the waste of money that destruction entailed;
he endeavoured to cut the Gordian knot by stopping the workmen's pay.
Though three or four of his fellow "delegates" were absolutely of the
same opinion, the rest sent him a polite intimation that if the
necessary funds were not disbursed voluntarily they would send for them,
and take the opportunity, at the same time, to "put him against the
wall," and make an end of him. That night, Courbet, the painter, who had
been the prime mover in this work of destruction, came to the Brasserie
Saint-Séverin from the Brasserie Andler, hard by, to taste the sweets of
his victory. His friend, Chaudey, of the _Siècle_, was no longer with
him. Like Mgr. Darboy, the Abbés Lagarde, Crozés, and Deguerry, he had
been arrested by Raoul Rigault as a hostage, in virtue of a decree by
the Commune, setting forth that every execution of a prisoner of war,
taken by the Versaillais, would be followed by the execution of three
hostages to be drawn by lot.

Jourde did not wear a uniform; at any rate, I never saw him in one. I
happened to remark upon it one evening, and he then gave me a partial
explanation why the others did wear them in so ostentatious a manner.

"It is really done to please the National Guards; they mistrust those
who remain 'in mufti;' they attribute their reluctance to don the
uniform to the fear of being compromised, to the wish to escape
unnoticed if things should go wrong. I grant you that all this does not
warrant the uniforms most of my colleagues do wear, but to the Latin
races the wisdom of Solomon lies in his magnificence, and they trace the
elevation of Joseph to its primary cause--his coat of many colours. I am
not only 'delegate of finances' and paymaster-general, but head cook and
bottle-washer in all that concerns monetary matters to the
Central-Committee. I have very few clerks to assist me in my work, and
fewer still upon whose honesty I can depend; consequently, I am
compelled to do a good deal of drudgery myself. Yesterday I received the
fortnightly accounts of Godillot,[91] the military tailors and
accoutrement manufacturers. They seemed to me simply monstrous, not so
much in respect of the prices charged for each uniform, as in respect of
the number of uniforms supplied. To have sent one of my clerks would
have been of no earthly use; there is an old Normand saying about
sending the cat to Rome and his coming back mewing; the clerk would have
simply come back mewing, saying that there was no mistake, so I went
myself. I saw the chief manager.

         [Footnote 91: The word "Godillot" has passed into the French
         language, and, at present, means the soldier's shoes.--EDITOR.]

"'I am positive there is no mistake, monsieur,' he said, 'though I may
tell you at once that I made the same remark when I passed the accounts;
the number of uniforms seemed to me inordinately large; mais il faut se
rendre à l'évidence, and I ticketed off every item by its corresponding
voucher. Still I felt that there is a terrible waste somewhere, and said
so to the head of the retail department. "If you will remain downstairs
for one hour," was the answer, "you will have the explanation." I can
only say the same to you, Monsieur le délégué.'

"I did remain on that ground-floor for one hour," Jourde went on, "and,
during that time, no fewer than eight young fellows came in with
vouchers for complete uniforms of lieutenants or captains of the staff.
Most of them looked to me as if they had never handled a sword or rifle
in their lives--yardsticks seemed more in their line; and the airs they
gave themselves positively disgusted me; but I do not want another
reminder of the Central-Committee about my cheeseparing, so I'll let
things take their course. Look, here is a sample of how we deck
ourselves out quand nous allons en guerre."

I looked in the direction pointed out to me, and beheld a somewhat dark
individual with lank, black hair, of ordinary height, or a little below
perhaps, dressed in a most extraordinary costume. He wore a blue Zouave
jacket, large baggy crimson breeches tucked into a pair of quasi-hessian
boots, a crimson sash, and a black sombrero hat with a red feather. A
long cavalry sabre completed the costume. Upon the whole, he carried
himself well, though there was a kind of swashbuckler air about him
which smacked of the stage. I was not mistaken; the scent or the smell
of the footlights was over it all.

"This is Colonel Maxime Lisbonne, an actor by profession, who has taken
to soldiering with a vengeance," said Jourde. "There is no doubt about
his bravery, but he is as fit to be a colonel as I am to be a general.
It does not seem to strike my colleagues that, in no matter what
profession, one has to serve an apprenticeship, and, most of all, in the
science of soldiering; Maxime Lisbonne said he would be a colonel, so
they, without more ado, made him one.[92] He never moves without that
Turco at his heels."

         [Footnote 92: During my stay in Paris, 1881-86, as the
         correspondent of a London evening paper, I had occasion to see
         a great deal of M. Maxime Lisbonne, who is a prominent figure
         at nearly every social function, such as premières, the
         unveiling of monuments, the opening of public buildings, etc.
         The reason of this prominence has never been very clear to me,
         unless it be on the assumption that the Paris journalists, even
         the foremost of whom he treats on the footing of equality,
         consider him "good copy." Only as late as a few years ago, he
         made a considerable sensation in the Paris press by appearing
         at one of M. Carnot's receptions in evening dress, redolent of
         benzine, "because the dress had been lying _perdu_ for so many
         years." It was he who started the famous "taverne du bagne," on
         the Boulevard Rochechouart, to which "all Paris" flocked.
         Previous to this, he had been the lessee of the Bouffes du
         Nord, at which theatre he brought out Louise Michel's "Nadine."
         Though by no means an educated man, he can, on occasions,
         behave himself very well, and truth compels me to state that he
         is very good-natured and obliging. One day, on the occasion of
         an important murder trial, I failed to see Commandant Lunel at
         the Palais de Justice, and was turning away disconsolately,
         when, at a sign from M. Lisbonne, the sergeant of the Gardes de
         Paris, who had refused to admit me on the presentation of my
         card, relented. That same afternoon, at the mere expression of
         his wish, the manager of the Jardin de Paris, which had just
         been opened, presented me with a season ticket, or, to speak
         correctly, placed my name on the permanent free list. In short,
         I could mention a score of instances of a similar nature; all
         tending to show that M. Maxime Lisbonne's "participation in the
         events of the Commune" has had the effect of investing him with
         a kind of social halo.--EDITOR.]

On another occasion I saw the famous General Dombrowski, and the no less
famous Colonel or General la Cécilia. I only exchanged a few words with
the former, but I sat talking for a whole evening to the latter. He was
a short, spare, fidgety man, strongly pitted with small-pox, with a few
straggling hairs on the upper lip and chin. He was terribly
near-sighted, and wore a pair of thick spectacles. Nervous and restless
to a degree, but a voice of remarkable sweetness. His English was
faultless, with scarcely any accent, and I was told that he spoke every
European language and several Oriental ones with the same accuracy. He
was the only Frenchman who could converse with Dombrowski and the other
Poles in their native language. He was a clever mathematician, and, that
evening, he endeavoured to prove mathematically that Von Moltke had
committed several blunders, both at Sadowa and Sedan. "That kind of
thing," said Jourde, after he was gone, "was sure to 'fetch' the
Central-Committee; he always reminds me of the doctors in Molière trying
to prove that one of their confrères had cured a patient contrary to the
principles of medicine. Mind, do not imagine that La Cécilia is not a
good soldier. He got all his grades in the Italian army, on the
battle-fields of '59-'60, and, during the late war, he directed the
brilliant defence of Alençon. But between a good soldier and a great
general there is a vast difference."

Physically, Dombrowski was almost the counterpart of La Cécilia, with
the exception of the glasses and the small-pox. But while the
Frenchman--for Cécilia was a Frenchman notwithstanding his Italian
name--was modest though critical, the Pole was a braggart, though by no
means devoid of courage. Up to the very end, he sent in reports of his
victories, all of which were purely imaginary. Even as late as the 21st
of May, when the Versailles troops were carrying everything before them,
the newspaper-boys were shouting, "Brilliant victory of General
Dombrowski." Dombrowski had been invested with his high command under
the pretext that he had fought under Garibaldi and in the Polish
struggle against Russia. It transpired afterwards that he had never seen
Garibaldi nor Garibaldi him, and that, so far from having aided his own
countrymen, he had been a simple private in the Russian army. Still, he
was a better man than his countryman Wrobleski, who showed his courage
by going to bed while the Versaillais were shelling Vanves.

Among my papers I find a torn programme of a concert at the Tuileries
during the Commune. It reads as follows:--

  COMMUNE DE PARIS,

  PALAIS DES TUILERIES

  Servant pour LA PREMIÈRE FOIS à une oeuvre patriotique

  GRAND CONCERT

  Au Profit des Veuves et Orphelins de la République.
  ----
  _Sous le Patronage de la Commune et du Citoyen Dr. Rousselle._
  ----
  Tout porteur de billet pris à l'avance pourra sans rétribution, visiter
  le Palais des Tuileries.

The rest is missing, but I remember that among the artists who gave
their services were Mesdames Agar and Bordas; MM. Coquelin cadet, and
Francis Thomé, the pianist.

I did not take my ticket beforehand, consequently was not entitled to a
stroll through the Palace previous to the concert. When I entered the
Salle des Maréchaux, where the concert was to take place, I felt
thankful that the trial had been spared to me, and I mentally ejaculated
a wish that I might never see that glorious apartment under similar
circumstances. The traces of neglect were too painful to behold, though
I am bound to say that I could detect no proofs of wilful damage. My
wish was gratified with a vengeance. A little more than a month
afterwards, the building was in flames, and, at the hour I write, it is
being razed to the ground.

I did not stay long; I heard Madame Agar, dressed in deep mourning,
declaim "the Marseillaise," and M. Thomé execute a fantasia on
well-known operatic airs. Some of the reserved seats were occupied by
the minor dignitaries of the Commune, but the greater part of the place
was filled by working men and their spouses and the very _petite
bourgeoisie_. The latter seemed to be in doubt whether to enjoy
themselves or not; but the former were very vociferous, and had
evidently made up their minds that the Commune was the best of all
possible régimes, seeing that it enabled them to listen to a concert in
a palace for a mere trifle. "That's equality, as I understand it,
monsieur," said a workman in a very clean blouse to me, at the same time
making room for me on the seat next to him. He and his companion
beguiled the time between the first and second number on the programme
by sucking barley-sugar.

About a month later--on Wednesday, May 17th, but I will not be
certain--I was present at the first gala-performance organized by the
Commune, although the Versailles troops were within gunshot of the
fortifications. This time I had taken a ticket beforehand. The
performance was to take place at the Opéra-Comique, and long before the
appointed hour the Boulevards and the streets adjoining the theatre were
crowded with idlers, anxious to watch the arrival of the bigwigs under
whose immediate patronage the entertainment was to be given. The papers
had been full of it for days and days beforehand; the posters on the
walls had set forth its many attractions. In accordance with traditional
usage on such occasions, the programme was a miscellaneous one, and the
wags did not fail to remark that the Commune ought to have struck out
something original instead of blindly following the precedents of
tyrants; but in reality the Commune had no choice. Few of the principal
artists of the subsidized theatres were available, and there was an
evident reluctance to co-operate among some of those who were; hence it
was decided to give fragments of such operas or comedies, calculated to
stimulate still further the patriotic and republican sentiments with
which the majority of the spectators were credited. There had been less
difficulty in recruiting the orchestra, and a very fair band was got
together. A great many invitations had been issued; few of the seats,
especially in the better parts, were paid for.

All the entrances had been thrown open, and around every one there was a
considerable gathering, almost exclusively composed of National Guards
in uniform, and women of the working classes, who enthusiastically
cheered each known personage on his arrival. The latter were too
magnificent for words, the clanking sabres, resplendent uniforms, and
waving plumes only paled in contrast with the toilettes of their female
companions who hung proudly on their arms. For them, at any rate, "le
jour de gloire était arrivé."

The crowd, especially the fairer portion of it, was decidedly
enthusiastic, perhaps somewhat too enthusiastic, in their ultra-cordial
greetings and recognition of the ladies, so suddenly promoted in the
social scale. Mélanie and Clarisse would have been satisfied with a less
literal interpretation of "Auld Lang Syne," as they stepped out of the
carriages, the horses of which belied the boast that at the end of the
siege there were 30,000 serviceable animals of that kind left.

The performance had been timed for half-past seven; at half-past eight,
the principal box set apart for the chiefs of the new régime was still
empty. As I have already said, disquieting rumours had been afloat for
the last few days with regard to the approach of the Versailles troops,
the guns had been thundering all day long, and, what was worse, for the
last forty-eight hours no "startling victory" had been announced either
on the walls of Paris or in the papers. Some of the "great men," among
the audience in the stalls and dress-circle, and easily to be
distinguished from the ruck of ordinary mortals, professed themselves
unable to supply authentic information, but as the performance had not
been countermanded, they suggested that things were not so bad as they
looked.

The theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling, and the din was something
terrible. The heat was oppressive; luckily the gas was burning low
because the companies were as yet unable to provide a full supply. There
were few people out of uniform in either stalls or dress-circle, but the
upper parts were occupied by blouses with a fair sprinkling of cloth
coats. The women seemed to me to make the most infernal noise. The two
stage-boxes were still empty; in the others there were a good many
journalists and ladies who had come to criticize the appearance and
demeanour of the "dames de nos nouveaux gouvernants." There was one box
which attracted particular attention; one of its occupants, evidently a
"dame du monde," was in evening dress, wearing some magnificent
diamonds, while it was very patent that those of her own social status
had made it a point to dress as simply as possible. I have never been
able to find out the name of the lady; I had not seen her before, I have
not seen her since.

At about a quarter to nine the doors of the stage-boxes were flung back,
and the guests of the evening appeared. But alas, they were not the
chief members of the Commune, only the secondary characters. It is
doubtful, though, whether the former could have been more magnificently
attired than were the latter. Their uniforms were positively hidden
beneath the gold lace.

Immediately, the band struck up the inevitable "Marseillaise;" the
spectators in the upper galleries joined in the chorus; the building
shook to its foundations, and, amidst the terrible din, one could
distinctly hear the crowds on the Boulevards re-echoing the strains. The
occupants of the state boxes gave the signal for the applause, then the
curtain rose, and Mdlle. Agar, in peplos and cothurnus, recited the
strophes once more. When the curtain fell, the audience rushed to the
foyer or out into the open air; at any rate, the former was not
inconveniently crowded. Among those strolling up and down I noticed the
lady of the diamonds, on the arm of a rather common-looking individual
in a gorgeous uniform. I believe I caught sight of the American
Minister, but I will not be certain.

This time the curtain rose upon an act of a comedy; the spectators,
however, did not seem to be vastly interested; they were evidently
waiting for the duo to be sung by Madame Ugalde and a tenor whose name I
do not remember. He was, I heard, an amateur of great promise.

Scarcely had Madame Ugalde uttered her first notes, when a bugler of the
franc-tireurs of the Commune stepped in front of an empty box and
sounded the charge. The effect was startling. The audience rose to a
man, and rushed to the exits. In less than five minutes the building was
empty. I had let the human avalanche pass by. When I came outside I was
told that it was a false alarm, or, rather, a practical joke; but no
one re-entered the theatre. Thus ended the gala-performance of the
Commune, and a careful observer would have had no difficulty in
foreseeing the end of the latter. The bugler had, unconsciously perhaps,
sounded its death-knell.

THE END.

D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS.

[Illustration: Christopher Columbus.]

_THE STORY OF COLUMBUS._

By ELIZABETH EGGLESTON SEELYE; edited by Dr. EDWARD EGGLESTON. With 100
Illustrations by Allegra Eggleston. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75.

[Illustration: Caravel.]

This book is the result of most extensive investigations, which have
been carefully verified by the eminent historian and novelist, Dr.
Eggleston. It is not too much to say that the whole world has been drawn
upon for material by the author and the artist. The fruits of these
investigations are presented in a popular, readable, always entertaining
form. While the book contains all the results of modern inquiry offered
in the bulkiest biographies, the story is here condensed and the
material selected with a view to an always interesting narrative. To a
considerable extent the plan of both text and illustrations is like that
of Eggleston's "Household History of the United States." It is hardly
necessary to say more regarding the fitness of this volume for a place
in every American private, public, and school library.

[Illustration: Catapult.]

     "The purpose of the writer of this book has been to relate the
     life of the greatest of discoverers in a manner interesting and
     delightful to the general reader, while producing a narrative
     strictly conformed to the facts as given by the best ancient
     authorities and developed by the latest researches of scholars.
     There is here no attempt to discuss the _pros_ and _cons_ of
     debated points in Columbian history. Such investigators as
     Navarrete, Mr. Harrisse, Signor Staglieno, and our own learned
     Mr. Justin Winsor, have wrought abundantly and with large results
     upon these problems. It is the purpose of the present work to
     tell the story as understood through the labors of these
     scholars, leaving aside ponderous discussions which in a book
     intended for general reading would tire without enlightening.

[Illustration: Image found at Santo Domingo.]

     "Though disclaiming original investigation beyond the careful use
     of the leading authorities, Mrs. Seelye has been at much pains
     not to give the reader the discredited myths used by the old
     school of biographers. It is a poor service to relate as history
     an interesting story that is not true, or to lift an historical
     figure into a heroism far from his real character. To give the
     facts as we know them, and to show Columbus as he really was, has
     been the sincere endeavor of the writer of this book. The story
     is wonderful enough without the embellishment of fiction; the man
     is interesting enough when painted in his real colors."--_From
     the Introduction, by Edward Eggleston._

[Illustration: Brer Rabbit Preaches.]

_ON THE PLANTATION._

By JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS, author of "Uncle Remus." With 23 Illustrations
by E. W. KEMBLE, and Portrait of the Author. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

The most personal and in some respects the most important work which Mr.
Harris has published since "Uncle Remus." Many will read between the
lines and see the autobiography of the author. In addition to the
stirring incidents which appear in the story, the author presents a
graphic picture of certain phases of Southern life which have not
appeared in his books before. There are also new examples of the
folk-lore of the negroes, which became classic when presented to the
public in the pages of "Uncle Remus."

     "The book is in the characteristic vein which has made the author
     so famous and popular as an interpreter of plantation
     character."--_Rochester Union and Advertiser._

     "Those who never tire of Uncle Remus and his stories--with whom
     we would be accounted--will delight in Joe Maxwell and his
     exploits."--_London Saturday Review._

     "Altogether a most charming book."--_Chicago Times._

     "Really a valuable, if modest, contribution to the history of the
     civil war within the Confederate lines, particularly on the eve
     of the catastrophe. While Mr. Harris, in his preface, professes
     to have lost the power to distinguish between what is true and
     what is imaginative in his episodical narrative, the reader
     readily finds the clew. Two or three new animal fables are
     introduced with effect; but the history of the plantation, the
     printing-office, the black runaways, and white deserters, of whom
     the impending break-up made the community tolerant, the coon and
     fox hunting, forms the serious purpose of the book, and holds the
     reader's interest from beginning to end. Like 'Daddy Jake,' this
     is a good anti-slavery tract in disguise, and does credit to Mr.
     Harris's humanity. There are amusing illustrations by E. W.
     Kemble."--_New York Evening Post._

     "A charming little book, tastefully gotten up.... Its simplicity,
     humor, and individuality would be very welcome to any one who was
     weary of the pretentiousness and the dull obviousness of the
     average three-volume novel."--_London Chronicle._

     "The mirage of war vanishes and reappears like an ominous shadow
     on the horizon, but the stay-at-home whites of the Southern
     Confederacy were likewise threatened by fears of a servile
     insurrection. This dark dread exerts its influence on a narration
     which is otherwise cheery with boyhood's fortunate freedom from
     anxiety, and sublime disregard for what the morrow may bring
     forth. The simple chronicle of old times 'on the plantation'
     concludes all too soon; the fire burns low and the tale is ended
     just as the reader becomes acclimated to the mid-Georgian
     village, and feels thoroughly at home with Joe and Mink. The 'Owl
     and the Birds,' 'Old Zip Coon,' the 'Big Injun and the Buzzard,'
     are joyous echoes of the plantation-lore that first delighted us
     in 'Uncle Remus.' Kemble's illustrations, evidently studied from
     life, are interspersed in these pages of a book of consummate
     charm."--_Philadelphia Ledger._

New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.