A CATHOLIC LADY IN " RED " PARIS.
Taos A CORRESPONDENT.] I arrived at the Nord station at eight o'clock on Easter Sunday morning, and began instantly to look for the Red Revolution. A profound stillness, the exit of four passengers from the train, and the presence of two carriages before the grand entrance, these were the only remarkable circumstances. I contemplated the competitive .cockers and chose my man, a brisk pleasant fellow, with merry -black eyes, fine white teeth, the traditional red waistcoat, which survives empires and revolutions, a shiny hat, and an innocuous whip. His strong grey horse had probably been imported since the siege, as he had evidently always had plenty to eat. " Citizen," said I, adhering to a promise extorted by a nervous friend, " I have very little time, a great deal to do, and a strong desire to see as much of Paris and the citizen patriots as possible. May I engage you by the hour, and is it dangerous for me to drive about the city ? " Nothing could be more agreeable than the proposed arrangement to the citizen cocker, or less dangerous to Madame (I was so much disappointed that no one called me ciloyenne), and she should see every thing of interest in Paris, especially the barracks and the ambulances. I got into the most comfortable coupe within my experience, and we rolled leisurely off towards the Rue Lafayette, discussing our route through the front window. Firing had been brisk in the direction of the Porte Maillot, and the vicinity of the Arc de Triomphe was not desirable. This was unfortunate, for part of my business for a later hour of the day lay in the Rue de Monceau and the Rue de Lisbonne. The citizen cocker thought it likely we could reach both without difficulty, if I did not mind not going quite up to the Arch. On we went towards the centre of the city, through empty, silent streets, for the most part—meeting an occasional coupe, a few omnibuses, occupied by blouses and National Guards ; some heavy waggons, probably containing am- munition, under sinister and disorderly escort of men in motley costumes, with guns and bayonets ; past small groups of patriots seated on the kerbatone, their guns against the wall behind them, with, in many instances, a loaf stuck on the bayonet point— towards the centre of the city. The sky was grey, the wind was piercing, there was next to no movement, and absolutely no sound. What had become of the swarming life of Paris ? Every shop was shut, many were boarded up, from a few windows hung shabby red flags, but the very buildings looked dead. It bewildered me. I could find no traces of the siege, and all my previous ideas of a revolution were dispersed. Not a bell was ringing, though this was Easter Sunday, but the churches were open. I passed several, and first, the Madeleine, into which I went. It had not been pillaged, it had not been in any way injured. The precious articles removed from the altars had been removed by the priests themselves. Children were sitting on the steps, and women were praying inside the church as usual. Only the legend, "Liberte, fraternite, egalite," deeply cut into the stone over the great door, denoted change. Every church I saw bore the same superscription, and the Revolution has effaced every trace of the effigies of the Empire, as promptly as the Empire suppressed those of the Republic. On the walls, on the hoardings, on the pillars of the Rue de Rivoli, are countless affiches, decrees of the Com- mune, (iris of the Committee, ordres of General Cluseret, appeals to the nation, to the citizen patriots, announcements of La Solidarite, innumerable advertisements of pamphlets, newspapers, and educational emirs, for the Commune is going to have every- body taught everything immediately. The Palais Royal bears a tremendous inscription : " Republique Francaise, Democratique, Une et Indivisible : Liberte, Fraternite, Egalite, Propriete Nationale ;" and its precinct is entirely empty. A ragged individual, feebly manipulating a staggering hose, with dribbly results, by way of watering the street, represents the great nation, in the very core of the heart of its civiliza- tion. I want to go to mass at Notre Dame des Victoires, but have heard that is a bad part, and consult the cocker. He laughs at the idea ; there is no " bad part," except out Neuilly way, Paris is " as quiet as a bird's nest," so we go to the Place des Victoires, and the cocker is triumphant. A woman selling flowers sits at one corner, a group of children are coming round another, two are empty and the central space. The church doors stand open, the popular legend is graven upon the left wall ; and the steps are occupied, just as usual, by beggars and cripples. No soldiers, no police, no visible authority of any kind, and cer- tainly no call for it. I went into the church, and found it densely crowded, chiefly with women, but a great many men also were present. A solemn, devout crowd, every woman in plain black dress, every face grave, anxious, grieved ; but not one frightened, no, not one. I studied them all, in the interval before mass began, at the altar of Our Lady of Victories. Presently an old priest appeared on the altar step, in the centre of the perpetual blaze of golden light, and began the Mass. He was reading the Gospel, and had just uttered the words, " Be not af- frighted, ye seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified," when there was a sullen roar of cannon. I hope I may be pardoned if I confess that I looked up and started. I had never heard anything more warlike than a review in the Phcenix ; but no one else moved ; not the smallest sign of surprise or uneasiness showed itself on any face. Then I knew what the siege had taught all those women and girls. The mass went on, and the guns went on ; the reverberation set the heavy leather doors of the church flapping, and echoed in the great painted windows ; but I got used to it in a few minutes, and heard it at intervals all day afterwards without heeding it in the least. I went out before the crowd, and found my intelligent cocker had profited by the inter- val to purchase for me Le Cri du Peuple, Le Mot d'Ordre, and Le Rappel. I should profit by my time better, he observed, if I knew exactly how things stood. I did not learn much from these jour- nals, beyond M. Rochefort's ardent desire that the " old assassin " Thiers should be disposed of, and that "as all men of heart (hommes de cceur) are demanding more blood, more blood must be had, but it is for the gentlemen Assassins of Versailles to begin." A second indignant editor denounces the infamous conduct of Lord Lyons in offering the shelter of the British Embassy to the Carmelite nuns,—persons under the displeasure of the nation (one of them being Lord Lyons' own niece), —and a third publishes a voluminous decree of the Commune, of which Article 9 is left blank. I wonder what that significant hiatus means? I am on my way to see a barricade now, and take the Rue St. Honore en route, where I have to make a call, within a short distance of the former residence of the "sea-green incorruptible," to whom the Commune are going to erect a statue in bronze, when they have time and a few of the kings have been melted down ; and I find the lady I want to see (who is very young and pretty) walking up the street, leisurely and unconcernedly, with a beautiful bouquet in her hand, and a tower-pot containing a gorgeous crimson blossom, with a long green stalk, under her arm. "No one need be afraid, then, in Faris? " I ask. " No woman," she replies ; " men are afraid, I believe, and in danger ; they are suspected of wanting to get away, and they will be made to stay and fight, but women are quite (safe from everything but shells." There is just a little more live- liness in the Rue St. Honore, but no open shops, and no noise. 'The groups of National Guards are more numerous, and I remark that the proportion of uniform to mufti is small and the uniforms :are shabby. Profound gravity is expressed upon every countenance, and every man seems to be looking to every other man for orders, or mews, or consolation. As a body, I consider the patriots looked hungry, 'cold, tired, and bored, to say nothing of dirty, which they looked to a man. We turn down a small street, apparently closed in by a meatly-built wall with holes in it, through which I discover the mouths of cannon. About this wall men are swarming, in and out of uniform ; they are all armed, and two or three wear red or white sashes with pistols stuck in them, after an Adelphi fashion, which instantly causes me to think of Mr. Webster and ' The Dead Heart." My cocker pulls up at the corner of the little :street, and exchanges friendly grins with the citizen-patriots who are swarming inside and outside the wall, while I peer out of the .carriage window longing to see more. Presently the cocker sug- gests that I should get out and look about me ; he cannot drive any farther, but from quite the corner I could see the whole of the Place Vendome, the General's head-quarters, and the parade of yesterday's levee, then taking place. A cheerful young woman, with a pretty wan infant in her arms, encourages me to de- scend, and a young man to whom she is talking, a clean, trim, fair young fellow, with a military look and step, salutes me with much politeness, and asks me if I ever saw a barri- cade. " No, citizen patriot," I reply ; " they do not make them in England, and I had no idea they were so symmetrical. I thought a barricade was a heap of rubbish piled up anyhow, kbut these are strong stone walls built at leisure." He seemed much pleased with my admiration, and having handed a tin can to the young woman, invited me to come inside the wall, which I • fiid. There was the Place Vendome, and filled with what realities and what phantoms ! I saw it last on the 15th of August, 1869, 'decorated for the Emperor's fete, and filled with the glittering imperial troops. I see it now, a wide, empty waste, bounded by 'the symmetrical barricades, dotted with slouching ungainly figures, avhose clothes and arms encumber them, and with busy, silent groups, strengthening the walls with steady industry. My friend tpoints out the cannon, shows me how they are pointed against all avenues of approach, shows me where the ground has been tun- melled, and guns placed, as it seems to me, with a design to cut .off the enemy's feet satisfactorily at once ; points out the " Gene- 'ral's" head-quarters, and puts me into a convenient position (ap- cparently envied by several women collected outside the barricade) 'for witnessing a distribution of arms. A number of men pass in a disorderly fashion before a group of men in uniform, and some- thing which I cannot make out plainly happens. When the men +return, each has a gun with a bayonet, and a belt, to which a coarse white bag is suspended : and for the first time I hear a sound like a 'feeble shout. I thank my friend for his politeness, and return to the carriage ; the young woman is still there, and she smiles at me, .as much as to say, " Is he not a fine fellow ?" I think he is, and that there are many fine fellows there very much out of place in the ruffianly mass. We turn into the Rue de Rivoli, and are stopped by a regiment marching out, " to meet the enemy," says may cocker, and I cannot in the least tell whether he is laughing at +them or believes in them. The grey horse stands still, and the 'citizen patriots, among whom are some very villainous-looking subjects, march past his blunt nose, with a good deal of shuffle to every little tramp. I am the solitary spectator, and I begin to feel as if I were reviewing Sir John Falstaff's troops. These poor .creatures are shabby, wretched, silent. I did not hear a laugh, .or an oath, I did not see one violent gesture, I hardly -saw a smile, all that day. The roystering, roaring, terrible -" Reds," as I saw them, are tired, dull men, doing ill-directed work with plodding indifference. The regiment passes on, and here .comes something up with a rattle at last. It is a victoria, with a flaunting flag, bearing the red cross on a white ground, and it contains two young men smoking and laughing, who have white scarfs with red crosses on their arms. "Young doctors ,going to the ambulance," says the cocker, and we go on,—past the Tuileries gardens, a bare, desolate space, all the beautiful .chestnut trees cut down, filled with wooden sheds ; past the side of the great empty palace, through the Carrousel, where the only diving creatures are the grey horse, and the cocker, and I, but which swarms so thick with phantoms, three of them women flying from a mob, that I can hardly breathe, and gasp with relief when I am on the other side, and looking back at the Pavilion of the Prince Imperial, which is not yet quite finished, I believe. We cross the noble bridge, and I look, like one in a dream, up and down the beautiful river, still as an Arctic river might be in the winter. Very far up there is a little puff of steam, and a few people lean over the wall eager to behold the marvel of a moving boat. On into the Faubourg, where there is even more silence, and where fewer people are moving about. There I visit a famous lady, who gives me the history of the past of Paris and her anticipation of its future in such brilliant style, her epigrams bristling like bayonets along the line of her narrative, that, though horrified, I am excessively amused, and carry away the drollest impressions of " L'Empire Cluseret." But her manner changes when I ask what I shall tell her friends in London ? And she says, " Tell them to fear everything, and to hope very little. We are a degraded people, and we deserve what we have got, and are going to get." I leave her, and go on to the house of another friend. He is absent, resident (with order) at Warsaw, but his concierge invites me to inspect the premises, which have been neatly cut in two by a shell, and one-half is a heap of ruins. While we are talking about it, and she is showing me where a second shell cut up the tasteful little garden, the cannon keeps up an incessant roar. She does not mind it, of course, and even to me it has become a mere detail. When I go out, I find a woman sitting on the carriage-step, her lap full of daffodils, which she is tying up into nosegays, at a sou each ; and she is talking to the cocker. As I take my place, I ask her to sell me some of the flowers, and as she puts them into my hand I see horror in her face. I suppose she sees a question in mine, for she whispers, " On dit qu'ils ont fusille Mon- seigneur ! " and is gone in an instant. I don't believe it. A living hostage is worth much more to l'Empire Cluseret than a dead archbishop ; but I see in the faces of all the women I pass that they have heard the rumour, and that they fear it may be true. We go on, and on, up to the Glaciere, past long lines of desolate boulevards, and grand, ghastly, sad houses, which have never been inhabited, the dust of whose construction was hardly laid when their roofs were battered in by the Prussian shells, and which present an extraordinary combination of bran newness and devastation. In this quarter there is hardly a living soul to be seen, and every sign of industry has disappeared. The place is like a chapter of the prophet Isaiah in carved stone and decorative metals. I had a long visit to pay in this quarter, and the grey horse and the coachee dined together while I paid it.
Back again to the Quai, across the bridge, and through the Place de la Concorde. The sun shines now, and people are walk- ing about past the statues with their absurd black masks, and the silly heap of tawdry crowns and flimsy flags rotting round Stras- burg, which, in the midst of the heap with its black bandage, looks like a colossal figure of the child's game of forfeits ; and with this detour, to the Palais d'Industrie, now an ambulance, quiet, decorous, spacious, well managed. I have no difficulty in getting a look into the huge central compartment. It is only a look, and there is nothing to be seen with which I am not familiar. But that look suffices to convince me that the accounts of the wounded in the late engagements are enormously ex- aggerated. I saw, of course in the most superficial way, the ambulances in the Champs Elysees afterwards, and I don't be- lieve there are half seven thousand men in them all put together. Considering that we had been informed on Saturday, in England, that shells were falling in the Champs Elysees, and that " harmless spectators" had been killed, it struck me as I drove up the grand avenue, in which I have witnessed many magnificent pageants, that there were a good many harmless spectators about, who were taking things very easily. The whole place was a vast bivouac for the National Guards ; indeed so are all the great thoroughfares ; but nurses and children are strolling about, very much as usual, and the bourgeoisie was taking its walks abroad. The boom- ing of cannon went on, and some carts bringing in wounded to the ambulance met us half-way up to the arch. I wanted to go to the Rue Billaut, and had arrived within a hundred yards of it when the carriage was stopped by a citizen patriot, who came up to the window, and told me politely that it would be dangerous for me to go in that direction, as a shell might be expected to fall there at any moment. While he was speaking, there came a sort of bursting whirr, a sound I never heard before, and I saw something for an instant in the air, above and behind the Arch. It was a shell, he said, and I heard after- wards it had fallen in the ex-avenue of the ex-Empress. This was
the only shell I saw, though from the top of a house in the Rue de Lisbonne, immediately afterwards, I had a fine view of Mont Valerien and the cannon. Up to the Arch, on either side, and in the adjacent streets, the National Guards were swarming, some eating, somelidly lying about in the sunshine, some talking, many asleep. The people came and went, children and dogs ran about. Occasionally a queer-looking fellow, representing the official who in enslaved, unfraternal, and unequal armies is called an orderly, mounted upon a horse unacquainted with the curry- comb, goes lumbering by, bumping and lurching in a ludicrous fashion, but no one laughed. An air of waiting prevailed, weary waiting, not impatient, contagious ; so that I found myself
lingering and looking into the blue distance under the Arch, as if a quarter-past seven were an indefinite period and the departure
of the mail train a movable feast. In the Rue de Monceau and the Rue de Lisbonne the people were out on the pavement. There were not many, and they were chiefly concierges, the proprietors and locataires being unanimous in their absence. From the windows of a house in the latter street I exchanged observations with a placid person seated on an opposite doorstep, respecting the
pungency of the smell of powder pervading the atmosphere. She had looked up with an agreeable smile at me as I sneezed violently, "C'est la poudre," she said, " ca fait eternuer."
I packed all the things I wanted to take away, and then set off to have a look, at a safe distance, at the Hotel de Vile, Notre Dame (where the red flag was drooping in an appropriately mean fashion), and the Palais de Justice, which is en conge. Pray observe that the strong grey horse had long intervals of rest. This was his last journey on my account. In these regions, the centre of the authority of the Revolution, there were a great many more people, and they were worse-looking, but there was very little more noise, and a total absence of excitement. I could get only a glimpse of the Hotel de Ville; it seemed to me to be a perfect ant-hill of guns and soldiers, and they all wavered and danced before my eyes as I remembered a day on which Horace Vernet showed me his portrait of Napoleon III., just placed there, and a night on which the City of Paris gave a ball to the beautiful and proud mother of the " Child of France." The Place de Greve swarmed with soldiers that night too. I remember how the corslets and the helmets of the Cent Gardes glittered, and shiny bits of their horses' accoutrements came out under the play of the innu- merable flickering, dazzling lights, as I looked down upon them from the purple and gold-draped balcony. The Republic was proclaimed from that same balcony in September. The few and brief speeches of l'Empire Cluseret are spoken from it now. Early in the afternoon an order had been issued for the closing of the churches ; no evening services were permitted on Easter Day. Notre Dame was black, silent, and deserted. From the bridge I gazed at the Conciergerie, a grand building now, a fine and strong place, no longer the dingy hole in which the Queen of France and others who had incurred the displeasure of the nation waited for the emancipation of death. What of the prisoners of the Republic, who are there now ? I thought with a shudder of the orderly ranges of ticketed skulls, and the miscellaneous heap of bones in the crypt of the " Missions Etrangeres ;" of the blood-stains on the walls, and the hacked benches, where the murderers worked like butchers on " killing-day " in the great slaughter-house of the Carmes. But all is so quiet ! There is literally no noise now, for we do not hear the guns in this quarter. I notice that all the clocks are stopped. I suppose it is nobody's business to wind them up, but the effect is strange. As I go past the quay -opposite the Louvre I see the first and only "bonnet rouge" which meets my inquiring gaze in Paris, where I expected to find it universal. Indeed my nervous friend suggested that I would do well to have a red cockade in my pocket in case of accidents or demand for fraternization. The wearer of the symbolical head-dress was an ill-looking ruffian, who sat with his back to the quay wall, his legs straddled across the footpath, his drunken head fallen forward on his naked hairy breast, a broken pipe between his knees, his doubled fists upon the atones at either side of him, and the " bonnet rouge" hanging over his ear, like Mr. Punch's cocked hat when he is getting the
Worst of it at the hands of the beadle. I looked attentively at the "Phrygian head-tire," with a whimsical remembrance of Chauvel's
benediction of the "old cap of the peasant" in my mind, and my belief is that the specimen in question was made out of an old waistcoat discarded by a cocker, by a person imperfectly acquainted with the form of the original.
I completed my business, and was driven to the railway station, through streets as quiet and orderly in the twilight as they were in the morning. The station was guarded by three patriots, and
administered by remarkably civil officials. I never experienced so little difficulty, or more politeness on any occasion of ticket-taking and luggage-weighing. I paid the exact fare of my carriage, the, exact price of my ticket and luggage registration ; no one even, looked a demand for a fee, on any pretence whatever. I proffered my passport for examination, it was declined with a bow, and I passed into the usual waiting-room and out of it into the usual carriage for Dames Seules with perfect ease and comfort. In the carriage there was an old French lady bound for Brighton, an& two young ladies, whose destination was Chantilly. We four- were the only women in the train, and I was informed that. no other railroad from Paris was open. After a very comfortable journey, we reached Victoria Station in perfectly good time. I despatched my slightly-bewildered companion to- Brighton, under the charge of a gallant Volunteer bound for the Review, and then proceeded to buy a newspaper, in order to see- what the correspondents had to say about " Red " Paris on Easter Sunday. The newspaper was the Daily Telegraph, and among its, sensational telegrams was the following, dated Monday morning, April 10 :—" Ladies endeavouring to escape from Paris last night were forced to pay 100 francs before being allowed to take tickets." If my nervous friend had been in the habit of reading the Daily- Telegraph, what would her feelings have been on seeing this state- ment, to which I am compelled to give, in common justice to the-
Commune, a positive contradiction ? F. C. H.
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