Chapter XVI: By Their Fruits Ye Shall Know Them (5)

“Farewell, joy and consolation of my old years, sweetness of my life, my dear daughter. I will not forget you in the presence of my God, if he will deign to hear my prayers.”

Thus the letter finished, and the sad and continued voice of M. Morin, which seemed to die out in murmurs, was only replied to by the long and bitter sobs of Valentine.

At the end, the young girl, trembling and half-tranquillized, approached the notary, turned toward him her mild countenance, where a timid smile of gratitude and tenderness already commenced to shine as a fugitive and light ray in the midst of her tears.

“Monsieur Morin, in four months I will be twenty-one,” said she. “Perhaps the proprietor of the asylum will wait till then. I shall be free then, will I not, to give the twenty thousand francs necessary for the purchase of the house?”

A profound silence, soon interrupted by a feeble murmur, greeted at first these words of the orphan. M. Maubars rose from his chair, shrugged his shoulders slightly, approached her, and took her hand 227 with a benevolent and paternal smile.

“Permit me, my dear child,” said he. “You are not--my worthy and respectable friend knew it well--quite competent to decide in matters of business, and you had better, I think--”

“You think perhaps I would do better to install the poor women in this dear old house,” interrupted the generous girl, with her sad and sweet smile. “Monsieur Maubars, I love it too much, this humble abode, too much in truth, I have in it so many sweet recollections, and have passed here so many happy days of infancy. But my poor dear mamma would perhaps be happier to know her old friends lodged and sheltered here, in her own house. So I am quite ready to give it up to them, if you think it right, quite suitable.”

“But no, no, dear good Valentine,” replied the prudent papa, with a very embarrassed air. “My child, you well understand, questions of sentiment should never interfere with those of business. Think, by abandoning this little property, or its equivalent sum, you give up in reality one-third of your dowry--a dowry, permit me to say too, without any grudge, that is already not the most considerable. Think that all prudent people would endeavor to dissuade you from taking this part; that you are not in reality free to accomplish a sacrifice so important and to the detriment of your future family.”

Ah! poor Valentine! had she ever expected such a declaration? At first she listened calmly, then smiled; then as she comprehended these words, that came like a thunderbolt upon her in all their cruelty, her paleness disappeared and gave place to a quick and glowing redness; then this in turn vanished, and she remained cold and white as a marble statue. Then a ray of indignation and grief glanced from her pure eyes, but compressing, however, the sudden beating of her heart, palpitating and growing colder every instant, she replied, still in an uncertain and timid voice, with a firm and serious accent, but caressing and affectionate:

“Free, did you say, my good Monsieur Maubars? Do you not mistake me? Should I not be always free to accomplish my duty, the last wishes of my mother?”

“But allow me ... distinguish,” repeated the future father-in-law, alarmed but yet not discouraged. “There is an imprudent and rash liberty, my dear young lady, and one that is provident and wise. You see yourself that your tender and generous protectress orders nothing, and asks nothing of you. She simply engages you to seek for the best advice of those who are interested in your happiness, in your future destiny, mine amongst others, my dear child. And you know well I am disposed to act toward you as an old friend, as your father. I have a great influence in benevolent societies, am a member of several; nothing easier for me to tranquillize you on the subject of your old women than to make out a little account of the actual state of things, with a few words of my own observation, and have them received without any delay or trouble into the hospital for incurables in this department. In this way, my dear Valentine, you see all can be arranged for the best. You will be relieved from all inquietude as to the fate of the _protégées_ of the excellent Madame de Guers; your little fortune will not be compromised; exempted from every care, free from obligations, you can consecrate your entire time to your duties, to the affections that await you in your new family.”

Valentine listened to every word, her eyes fixed, her lips immovable. But from time to time a deeper and more sombre shade spread over her 228 eyes, an expression more desolate fixed itself on her lips. When the caressing and persuasive voice of her future father-in-law ceased to be heard, she sadly bent her head, and replied:

“Alas! Monsieur Maubars, I see we can never again understand each other. I am not free, as you appear to think. What my dear and worthy protectress would have done, I must do for her.”

“But, my child, reflect: you cannot sacrifice your little fortune.”

“And this fortune, to whom do I owe it, then--I, a poor, abandoned orphan, who, without the generous protection of this inestimable friend, would have been sent in years gone by where you would place these poor infirm people--in a hospital. Oh! my good Monsieur Maubars, if my benefactress had in dying left some debt of honor that I should pay, would you advise me to cancel the obligation--you who are so just and honorable?”

“But, dear young lady, the case is different; your excessive delicacy leads you astray.”

“It is only different in one respect: it is more grave and solemn. This is a sacred debt that Madame de Guers has contracted toward God and toward the poor, to satisfy the yearning of her soul. To-day this debt is transmitted to me. I recognize it; I receive it with the rest of her heritage; I promise to use, if necessary, all my resources, all my time, all my strength to pay it as I should.”

The young girl, pale though resolute, rose in pronouncing these words, and extended her little hand, that had ceased to tremble, as if she called upon all the strangers assembled to witness her irrevocable decision, her generous determination. The old frequenters of the mansion could scarcely recognize her: she seemed to have grown taller, ripened in a moment, and was transfigured. Her former sweetness, so timid and charming, did not abandon her, but there mingled in it an expression of invincible courage and inflexible integrity; the weak and feeble child had disappeared, and in her place appeared a woman--loyal, intrepid, resigned, ready for every devotion, for every sacrifice, even of the oldest and most cherished affections of her heart.

M. Maubars was undeceived; it was with an expression evidently of extreme surprise and marked discontent that he fell back a few steps and bent his whitened head: “I persist in hoping, mademoiselle, that you will still reflect,” said he, in a tone impressed with remarkable coldness. “Otherwise, you understand, without doubt, our projects must undergo same modification. Consider that such obstinacy on your part is a most unhappy precedent for the well-being and peace of your future household.”

At this brutal menace, at this the saddest moment, perhaps, of her life, Valentine became still paler and her look more sombre, but she neither trembled nor flinched, accepting without a murmur and in silence all the bitterness of the duty she had just embraced. Only, by an old and tender habit of childhood, with the remains of a hope perhaps, her gaze, more eloquent and earnest than ever, was fixed upon Alfred--the friend, the betrothed, whom, for so long a time, she had been accustomed to consult in any sadness or disquietude. But Alfred, before the mute anguish of this regard, was not moved. He bore with his father an air of gravity and dissatisfaction.

“I am sure you will reflect upon this, Valentine,” he simply said. 229 “You see my father counsels you as a true friend, having only in view your happiness and the preservation of your fortune.”

Then Valentine turned slowly and sadly, without allowing a single tear to escape her, or a single sob that was then swelling in her breast.

“My good Monsieur Morin, my resolution is taken,” said she, her voice at first trembling, but becoming steadier as she spoke. “All the reflections that I could make would only serve to show me my duty, more distinct, more exact, more sacred. In two months, if you wish, we will hear what property had better be sold, and choose a suitable abode for our asylum.... Now, gentlemen, our council is ended, I believe.... I thank you one and all for having accorded me your advice and the support of your presence.”

All the assistants understood that the courageous young girl must be left alone to suffer, alone to weep. They rose simultaneously, bowed to her profoundly with admiration and respect, and went out. Alfred wore already a resigned look of sadness, and M. Maubars betrayed his irritation in his brusque movements and unsteady walk. The echoes of their steps died in the distance, and around the orphan in her mourning reigned only solitude and silence.

“It is all over; they have said it,” she murmured then, and let fall the pent-up tears. “But no! it was to be.... I wished it also. It was my duty--why could he not so understand it? Oh! Adeline told me the truth. God is good to have enlightened me while I am still single and free. Poor mamma, you could not have imagined this. So much the better, for you would have wept so bitterly.”

Speaking thus, she wept and wept, hiding her face in her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break. The hours flew by, night came, and the November rain fell on the windows, the November wind shook the shutters in the little parlor, formerly so tightly closed, so bright, and peopled with good friends, but now so solemn and deserted, and where the orphan alone must suffer and weep.

IV.

Valentine held firm to her resolution; her soul, so loyal and pure, was of those where the courage of devotion, and the love of duty accomplished, united to double the price of the humble virtues, submission, gentleness, and tenderness. To a very polite and respectful letter from Alfred, in which the young man begged her to let him know if she still persisted in her intentions, she replied in simple terms, releasing him from his engagement, and telling him that henceforward she should devote herself to the austere and honorable task bequeathed her by her adopted mother. Notwithstanding her orders to the contrary, one of her best friends forced her way into the house, no doubt with good intentions. It was the lively and joyous Adeline de Malers, in whom, in spite of much prudence and worldly experience, tenderness and benevolence were not wanting, and who would sincerely have desired to conquer what she considered the obstinacy and blindness of her poor dear friend. Adeline took care to bring precious arguments with her to plead the important marriage cause: she led her two dear little children by the hand, with their innocent babbling and sweet smiles, the source of so much delight and maternal felicity. However, Valentine did not yield; her soul was steeped and her resolution strengthened by the secret prayers and solitude of her 230 affliction.

“My dear,” said Adeline to her at the end of her arguments, “if you grow poor by this foolish liberality, and if, half-ruined, you are obliged to give up M. Alfred Maubars, you will be an old maid, I warn you.”

“I have always been a happy young girl, I can be a tranquil and contented old maid. Happiness has no age,” replied Valentine, with her calm and tender smile.

“My dear, the obliged are generally ungrateful; gratitude from the poor is a rare and uncertain commodity.”

“I know it; but the satisfaction of an accomplished duty is immense, and the grace of God infinite. Besides, I shall be so happy to realize the intentions and to continue the work of my mother, who is in heaven.”

Adeline shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of impatience. “But your poor old folks won’t live for ever, and when the last one has disappeared, your work will be finished, and you will be alone. Besides, in devoting yourself in the flower of your years to their catarrhs and their rheumatisms, do you know, my poor child, what you renounce and what you lose? Come here, Bertha, my treasure, kiss me, Max, you dear little angel.... Look at them now, you wicked little obstinate one, and tell me, as you examine them well, if all the happiness, all the glory of a woman, does not consist in raising, caring for, and cherishing such charming little loves.”

At these words, Valentine drew the little ones to her; kissed each of their pretty white foreheads, and laid her hand gently on their blonde heads; for she had at heart that tender and deep love of children that God has given innocent young girls, in order that one day their most holy duty may become their truest and sweetest happiness. And for an instant perhaps the caressing look that she fixed upon them became more tender, deeper, and more tearful; she stooped then a moment toward the earth; then resumed her serenity, and replied peaceably and with resignation:

“God has given me my children--children, Adeline, who have great need of me, for they are suffering, poor, and feeble. Besides, my good friend, when the last of these poor old people shall have gone, there will remain to me the foundation, the hospital. I will open it then to real children, to young and poor orphans. In this way, I too will have my family--my family blessed by God.”

“It is fanaticism, truly, and I begin to despair of your future, my dear friend,” cried Adeline, surprised and discontented to find her overtures so energetically repulsed. “But, then, why do you persist in remaining in the world, that will only have, believe me, disdain for your heroism, coldness and raillery for your generous devotion? Why do you not at once adopt the cornette and serge of the Sister of Charity?”

“Because, thus far, God has not so commanded me,” replied the courageous child, modest and resigned. “My duty lies near these old women; here my place is marked out; I have nothing else to do but understand, adore, and obey. And since I have friends among my people, I esteem and love them also. Why should these friends abandon me because a sacred duty claims a portion of my time and my strength, and I must consecrate myself to it? My destiny is no doubt changed, but my heart will never change, and from those I should have loved my memory will never be detached; no rival affection will banish their remembrance, 231 and for them, always, I shall be Valentine.”

Adeline took leave soon after, half-angry, half-impressed, declaring she could understand nothing of the character of such an obstinate girl, who could hide such real perversity, such inexplicable tenacity, under a manner so timid and so gentle. After her departure, the pupil of Madame de Guers read for the last time the solemn message to Alfred, and finished the reply she had already commenced. Not a tear sullied the page whereon slowly and courageously she traced her farewell. Not a start of tenderness or grief agitated the poor little white hand, that so heroically sealed the decree of separation, renunciation, and forgetfulness. Only when she had finished, when there was nothing more to propose or hope for, when the old Marianne, carrying the letter, had disappeared in the fog, near the neighboring quay, she gently approached, with her eyes full of tears, the chimney where the noble and tender face of her second mother, the friend of her youthful years, smiled on her as if to encourage her from under her light glass covering. Before she pressed her trembling lips on the little portrait, she smiled sweetly through her tears.

“It is all finished, mamma,” murmured she. “I will do as you would--hereafter live only for God, and for his poor. You have told me more than once that such is the lot of the elect. I believe you, dear mamma; I love you and I bless you.”

And as the choice of the young girl was made, she lived, as she had said, devoted and valiant, active and resigned. The notary soon came to the conclusion, and made it known to her, that all her resources would be needed for the support of her old people. But what would she have done all alone in the dear old house, much too large for her by herself, and so full of remembrances, rendered so bitter in silence and solitude? Valentine understood what she had to do, and easily resigned herself. The old and peaceable abode, a little enlarged, received on one story the old pensioners of the little hospital, while the young protectress reserved on another her bedroom, her little parlor, and her library: a modest apartment filled with pious relics and sweet and humble souvenirs. And from this moment her life was entirely consecrated to her retreat, to God and the poor; from this moment, too, she openly relinquished all hope of any new situation, any other destiny; and the circle of friends and acquaintances of the little town of C---- ceased to include her among the marriageable.

In obscure cares, in constant labor, in hidden devotions, passed the days, sped the years, and robbed her of her youth. But peace remained, because she was content to establish her abode in the shadow of a Christian roof, and in the love of grateful hearts. It is true--though some of our readers may be permitted to doubt it--that a peace the sweetest, the most delightful, the most constant, and the most sure does not depend on what excites and passes so quickly from earth, but on the true, salutary, and Christian manner in which the soul, wise and resigned, puts itself in harmony with the exigencies of its destiny and the will of its God. Valentine felt this early, and from that time experienced it always. The serene tranquillity of her heart, humble in its desires and contented in its destiny, was never overshadowed by a cloud; it stood proof against any shock, even on the day when, having finished the reading of the Scriptures to the old 232 Genevieve, she heard in the street, quite close to her, a great noise of carriages, rolling joyously towards the church, from which resounded the sounds of a _fête_, and, looking out the window to explain the cause of the tumult, she saw in the first of the carriages, ornamented with wedding favors, bouquets, and ribbons, two friends of her childhood: the betrothed of that day, Alfred Maubars and Rosine Martin. There passed over her face a calm smile, vague and almost dreaming; then a fixed and disturbed look, for at the bottom of the page, as she read, were these words: “_It is not good for man to be alone._”

But almost immediately resounded in her ears the caressing and infantine voices of childhood, those of two little orphans, her cherished dependants, who had taken the places of Babet and Manou, dead full of years, and now quietly reposing in their graves. At the joyous call Valentine was once more herself, and, with a calm smile, bending her head as if she recognized her error, she said:

“Yes, indeed, it would be sad to be alone, but those are never so who know how to love. Dear mamma told me so, and well she knew what she said. Come, Marie, come Louisette, let me say the _Angelus_ with you.” The little ones approached, knelt down, and she laid her hands on their heads, and kissed their browned foreheads. And before she made the sign of the cross she regarded them earnestly, and with a joyful, softened, peaceable, and triumphant gaze, even an expression of indifference and forgetfulness to the carriage that was rolling towards the church, and she rose at last full of gratitude and love of benediction and prayer, and lifted her eyes to the clear and blue heaven that caressed her with its gold-lit rays.

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TRUE FAITH.

Faith is no weakly flower,
By sudden blight, or heat, or stormy shower
To perish in an hour.

But rich in hidden worth,
A plant of grace, though striking root in earth,
It boasts a hardy birth.

Still from its native skies
Draws energy which common shocks defies,
And lives where nature dies!
E. CASWALL.

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THE PLACE VENDOME AND LA ROQUETTE. 233

THE BEGINNING AND THE END OF THE COMMUNE.

FROM LE CORRESPONDANT.

II.

I shall not pass abruptly from my first account, drawn up at the end of March, respecting the tragedy of the Place Vendôme, to that written at the end of May, concerning the invasion of the Madeleine, my detention at the Préfecture de Police and at Mazas, and the transcendent crimes of the Commune which I witnessed at La Roquette.

What was the opinion of the few politicians left in Paris respecting the strange events they witnessed, the accomplices and auxiliaries of the Commune, and the degree of responsibility the national and international element would incur in its follies and crimes?

We must render this justice to the victorious insurgents of the eighteenth of March--that the power of dissimulation was the weakest of their traits and the least of their cares. If they aimed at imitating Carnot, Danton, and Robespierre, they made no pretensions of rivalling Richelieu, Mazarin, and Talleyrand. With a moderate degree of coolness, curiosity, and discernment, it was easy to gain access to their larder, and ascertain the ingredients of the viands to be served up to us each day. They had too slight a dash of moral sense to be preoccupied with questions of honor and propriety. The absoluteness of their aims made them completely insensible to delicacy of means and diffidence as to appearances. Therefore, the politicians who had not fled before the heroes of the Internationale did not waste their time. If they were nearly deprived of action, they could, at least, be observant, communicate the result of their impressions, and acquire a reasonable conviction respecting the operation of the revolutionary engine, with its numerous springs and mysterious propelling forces, not revealed by the press of the Commune, and therefore escaping the attention of the vulgar.

I have already protested against the weakness, blindness, or connivance of the republican mayors and deputies of Paris, who, immediately after the massacres of the Place Vendôme, became reconciled to the agents of the central committee, disbanded and dispersed the battalions of the national guard still faithful to the cause of order, and gave Paris up to an association of adventurers and outlaws, some of unknown origin, others notorious for their conflicts with the laws of their own countries, and all for their savage hatred of every social institution.

Instead of subsequently acknowledging their weakness or error, the majority of the radical republicans continued their campaign against the national assembly with a persistence and hypocrisy that cannot be sufficiently stigmatized. To preserve the republic, they emboldened and strengthened the Commune, thus sacrificing to their political idol the peace, prosperity, honor, and existence of their country. The 234 Commune did not conceal its affection for such auxiliaries, but its caresses were to some of a more serious and compromising nature.

Formerly, the most ultra never dreamed of giving up their patriotism. It was reserved for the members of the Commune to divest themselves of this old prejudice of all nations. They vehemently demanded, during the siege of Paris by the Prussians, the most extreme measures--a general sortie, “_des battailles torrentielles_,” and fighting to the last. When conspiracy made them masters of Paris, their violence and ferocity against the Prussians changed to obsequious devotedness and civilities of the most amicable nature. Their dishonest protestations were displayed in the columns of the official journal of the Commune with a coolness that makes one blush. The delegate of foreign affairs treated the Prussians, who had just lacerated and humiliated France, and bombarded its capital, as if they were our most faithful allies, and were sacrificing themselves heroically for our safety.

The generals of the Commune, who had been imprisoned some weeks before by the government of the national assembly as Prussian spies and agents, made no change in their patriotic course. The delegate of war, General Trochu, recalled at the tribune, “is making a series of rigorous arrests, the object of which is to assure to the enemy the freedom the pending negotiations confer on them.”

The politicians and chemists of the Commune proved they had been in a good school by borrowing two ideas of M. de Bismarck and M. de Moltke, the very names of which now inspire horror--the system of hostages and the use of petroleum. To ensure the entire payment of the exorbitant requisitions on the invaded provinces, and somewhat avenge the limited enthusiasm manifested by the humiliated and suffering inhabitants, the Prussians retained the most notable individuals as hostages, and sent them to the prisons of Germany. Citizens Ferré and Raoul Rigault found this system too ingenious and convenient not to be adopted. They took as hostages, and imprisoned them at Mazas and La Roquette, the priests and laymen who, according to the opinion of these servile imitators, had been more devoted to social and national interests than to those of anarchy and demagogism.

Fourteen months ago, a peculiar dictionary was discovered in the headquarters of the Internationale, in which was a list of such words as nitro-glycerine and picrate of potassium, and a recipe for sulphurate of carbon, and the chlorate and prussiate of potassium. At the end of the recipes were these words, significant of the uses to which they were to be applied: “To throw from the windows: to be thrown into the gutters.” If the most formidable of recipes is not to be found there, it is because the citizens of the Commune had not yet learned in the school of Prussian engineers the art of destroying houses and monuments by means of petroleum.

In continuing the account of the horrible deeds of the Commune, I find consolation as a Frenchman in the thought that the murderers and incendiaries of Paris denied not only their God, but their country, and that they were members not only of a criminal, but a foreign league.

I.

THE CLOSING OF THE MADELEINE.

In following with serious attention the various evolutions of the Commune, we are struck by the contrast between its beginning and its 235 end. Its first essays were rather grotesque than frightful. The statesmen most preoccupied about the quicksands on which it threatened to cast society and the nation did not at first foresee the crimes that are without a name, which made its end one of the most sinister pages in human history. The reason is easily understood. Once masters of Paris, the charlatans and rogues that composed the Commune hoped to become the rulers of France. They saw themselves already at the head of a social revolution, and, encouraged by their unexpected success in the seductive cause of pretended renovation, they set to work in earnest. Hence the deluge of strange and incoherent decrees that became a dead letter, and only served to amuse the careless and frivolous Parisian.

But when the generals of the Commune made an audacious effort to seize Versailles and open communication with their numerous agents in the populous centres of the provinces, they were overwhelmed by the army they thought disorganized or won over to their cause, and all their plans were overthrown. The attempts to excite an insurrection in the large cities failed. The Commune could expect nothing more from the intervention of the departments: its rule was restricted to Paris, and the days of its power were numbered. Then projects of hatred and vengeance succeeded those of social renovation. The monkeys of the Hôtel de Ville gave place to tigers. The prophets and apostles of the Commune lost their _sang-froid_. The foul Felix Pyat exhausted himself in atrocious invectives, and the fiendish Delescluze evidently preferred to blow up Paris rather than give it up to France.

While the emissaries of the radical republicans knowingly deceived France and all Europe respecting the condition of Paris, and were circulating their deceitful and imprudent sophisms, dictated by their admiration for the Commune and their hatred of the national assembly, what was the language of foreign journals that cared for nothing about these internal struggles but exactness and impartiality? The correspondent of the _Times_ was not satisfied with comparing Paris to an infernal caldron, in which seethed all human passions, but thus depicted the armed forces of the Commune: “Besides the old and the young, excited by the phraseology of the first revolution, still novel to them, all the villains in Paris are under arms. I have never seen, even in London, so sinister a collection of faces. These men always seem more or less intoxicated. They have not, perhaps, ceased to be so since the eighteenth of March.” Such is the spectacle in the streets and public places: that of the forts and ramparts is of a still more expressive character: “Man is there only a ferocious animal, everywhere scenting blood. We hardly recognize him, and no longer comprehend him.”

The parish service I directed at the Madeleine after the arrest of M. Deguerry encountered but few difficulties. The Commune only made some insignificant requisitions in a civil manner. The qualification of “citizen director of the church of the Madeleine,” given me in the most solemn manner, enlivened me for an instant in the midst of my cares and griefs.

The success of the Versailles army, in giving joy to the respectable people still remaining at Paris, was a source of danger to them. The Commune concentrated, or rather gave up, its civil and military power into the hands of the committee of public safety and the central 236 committee. On Wednesday, the seventeenth of May, in going to administer the last sacraments to the daughter of a concierge in the Rue de la Victoire, I found the ninth arrondissement hemmed in by the insurgents, who were making frequent arrests. Thanks to one of the most ultra journals of the Commune that I pretended to be reading very attentively, I passed through their inquisitorial ranks unimpeded.

On the eighteenth, which was Ascension day, the church of St. Augustine was closed, and one of the vicars and the organist were imprisoned. All the offices of the day were celebrated at the Madeleine, attended by a numerous and very devout congregation; but, so far from yielding to any illusion about the fate that awaited me, I begged Dr. B. de L----, a parishioner of the Madeleine, to enable me after vespers to see M. Jacquemin, one of the physicians of the prison of Mazas. There was every reason to believe I should soon require his kind services. I was already acquainted with M. de Beauvais, the second physician at Mazas, whose courageous devotedness I was subsequently to experience, and who had already been so thoughtful as to give me news of the curé of the Madeleine and of the Archbishop of Paris. After my interview with Dr. Jacquemin, I felt some embarrassment about returning to my residence. The Rue de la Ville-l’Evêque was filled with an armed band of the national guards. The house of the Sisters of Charity, opposite the Presbytère, was guarded by two sentinels. The sisters had been expelled, and the girls’ school confided to some _citoyennes_, who, according to the unruly tongues of the quarter, had been replaced at the prison of St. Lazare by the Sisters of Picpus, who were accused of a series of crimes, each one more extraordinary than the rest. I bought, as on the previous day, one of the ultra journals of the Commune, and, armed with this new kind of a safe-conduct, I took a roundabout way to the Rue la Ville-l’Evêque, in order to avoid the national guards as much as possible. Once their protection would have been eagerly sought against a robber or assassin, but since the reign of the Commune respectable people feared and fled from them as the worst of evil-doers. And the new military organization will doubtless have to undergo a radical transformation, for it will be difficult for it to rise above the moral discredit into which it has fallen.

Some moments after, a Polish priest, who had given himself up with indefatigable zeal to the service of the ambulances, notified me that an order had been signed to close the churches and arrest the priests still in Paris. I went to see one of my devoted _confrères_, M. de Bretagne, and consult with him about the means of preserving the holy eucharist from profanation. The insurgents had already thrown away or carried off in their cartridge-boxes the sacred elements in some of the churches. At this very time the church of St. Philippe-du-Roule was entered by the insurgents, and for want of priests they arrested two employees who were guarding the church. The Madeleine of the eighth arrondissement was the only church that was still open.

Although, after the arrest of M. Deguerry, a part of the valuables of the church had been carried to a safe place, I employed the first moments of Friday, the nineteenth, in confiding the remainder to some women of the working-classes. I only left in the church a few valuable 237 objects and several hundred francs. The agents of the Commune had a singular longing for money, and when they could not obtain some bank-bills or gold in their expeditions, the places invaded or the persons arrested had to suffer for such a financial disappointment.

At half-past three, the sacristy door burst open. A tall young man, clad _à la_ Robespierre, with a broad red mantle that half-covered him, advanced at the head of a knot of confederates armed with revolvers, and exclaimed in a loud tone: “The church of the Madeleine is closed by order of the committee of public safety.” I was at that moment supplying the unfortunate people whom the _régime_ of the Commune had deprived of work and bread. I had on my choir robes in addition to my ordinary ecclesiastical costume. The inmates of the sacristy were greatly excited. Some who were waiting to go to confession fled. Only one, the wife of an old prefect of the empire, bravely remained to witness this singular spectacle. I approached the judicial agent, and asked to examine the official decree and see if it was authentic. While I was reading it, I saw in his hands two other decrees of the committee of public safety, one prescribing my arrest and the other the suppression of some newspapers that had not conformed to the opinions of the Commune. I thought the signature was that of Ranvier, the mayor of Belleville, one of the most influential members of the Commune and of the committee of public safety. He was an old bankrupt wine-dealer, who had several times been amenable to the laws, and, like all social outlaws, swore an implacable hatred to society. He acquired great popularity in the clubs, after the fourth of September, by advocating social war, as in the last months of the empire he had advocated the claims of absolute liberty! It was by virtue of this absolute liberty that he had just signed the three decrees, that aimed so many brutal blows at religious, civil, and political liberty.

“Are you the citizen director of the church of the Madeleine?” added the delegate, somewhat irritated at the inspection of the warrant, which seemed to him rather impertinent.

I would willingly have replied like Sganarelle, “Yes and no, according to your wish,” but unfortunately, instead of living any longer in the Paris of Molière, we lived in a city of folly and crime.

“You know perfectly well that the curé of the Madeleine was arrested six weeks ago. It is I who am for the present in his place.” I had not finished these words before he took the second warrant, and exclaimed in thundering tones: “By virtue of a decree of the committee of public safety, the citizen director of the church of the Madeleine is arrested.” The murderers who escorted him, and who belonged to the battalion of the _Vengeurs de Flourens_, rushed upon me, holding their revolvers against my throat and chest, and bestowing on me a series of names, the most decent of which were “_bandit_, _canaille_, _crapule_, _assassin_!” One of them, whose stupid ferocity can only be attributed to drunkenness, cried, while endeavoring to adjust his arms: “It is you, vile rabble, who cause the patriots of Paris to be assassinated by the wretches at Versailles: the priests are the murderers of the people: they should all be shot.” I had received these miserable men with politeness and a sentiment of resignation. Their low insults made me flush with indignation and decide to confront them.

“I am not accustomed to hear such language,” said I to their leader. “If you continue to treat me in this way, I shall seat myself without 238 another word, and force alone shall tear me from this sanctuary.”

He made a sign to his followers to moderate their civic indignation, but without being heeded. I now sought to lead them into a discussion, hoping to appease them and preserve the church from devastation by making them incapable of justifying their acts and outrages. For two hours--hours that seemed ages--I was obliged, under the greatest peril, to defend myself as a man and a priest against these emissaries, who were as ridiculous as they were odious. I will relate the principal points in this interchange of observations.

I first asked why I was arrested. At this question the delegate of the committee of public safety replied by a torrent of accusations and maledictions against the “miserable quarter of the Madeleine, the most hostile in Paris to the _régime_ of the Commune.” He was not wholly wrong in this, for at the last elections the parish of the Madeleine, which comprises about forty thousand inhabitants, did not give more than a hundred votes to the candidates of the Commune. In the eighth arrondissement, where the church is, of about nineteen thousand votes, only five hundred voted for the Communist members. He added: “You must therefore expiate your conspirations in favor of the Versailles assassins.” Here the delegate was no longer right. But it was evident that I was arrested because I was the “citizen director of the Madeleine,” and they would make me expiate the sympathy and concurrence that the parishioners of the Madeleine had the unpardonable offence to refuse the Commune. To gain more time and thus calm their fury, I spoke of political affairs. My observations visibly disconcerted my interlocutors. The epithets, _canaille_, _crapule_, and assassin, became more and more rare, and their revolvers, at first so actively and impertinently exercised, were returned by degrees to their cases.

Another incident that might have been fatal to me served still more to disconcert them. During the last half of the reign of the Commune, the affair of the bodies found at St. Laurent, Notre Dame des Victoires, and Notre Dame de Lorette had an unfortunate effect. Disregarding the reports of the physicians and what was clearly evident, the revolutionist papers, the _Journal Officiel_, and the clubs exclaimed at the scandal. The most abominable crimes were imputed to the clergy, against whom a diabolical persecution was excited by extravagant accounts and vile pictures. In vain were these extravagances met by decisive reasons: the reasons themselves became new subjects of crimination and invectives which gave me great concern.

The vaults of the Madeleine were at this epoch filled with bodies. During the siege of Paris by the Prussians, the bodies of several generals and foreigners of distinction had been deposited there till they could be carried to their distant family tombs. I had for several days dwelt on the explanation I could give respecting these bodies so as to silence these furious madmen, but had found none. The time had come when I needed it.

“It is in this miserable parish of the Madeleine,” exclaimed the delegate of the Commune with a smile of contempt and hatred, “that we shall discover the infamy of the priests. I will bet,” continued he, turning toward his agent, “that we shall find here more horrible things than at St. Laurent and Notre Dame des Victoires. Citizens, 239 let us go down into the vaults!”

The ray of light that I had sought for in vain the three previous weeks all at once beamed into my mind, I found the reason I needed. Though in the power of the dangerous agents of the committee of public safety, I blessed God for his protection.

“I have two observations to make to you,” I replied. “The first is that you will find in the vaults of the Madeleine many more corpses than in the other churches....”

I can still see the delegate laughing with fiendish satisfaction at these words till he nearly fell backwards. “I told you, citizens, that there was more infamy in this church than anywhere else!”

“The second observation, sir, concerns you personally, and from a motive of charity I think it a duty to draw your attention to it. I warn you that several of these bodies belong to illustrious families in Spain, Italy, England, and America, and, if you are rash enough to disturb them, it is with these foreign powers, and not with me, you will have to deal.”

In his place I should have endeavored to dissimulate my embarrassment by doubting this assertion, and requesting to be assured of the fact. But he was not constrained in the least. He waved his hand with a triumphant air, and, as if it were I who proposed to violate the tombs, he exclaimed in the most sonorous manner: “Yes, yes, the Commune will protect these bodies; they shall be protected!”

After this incredible instance of foolishness and incoherency, we may stop. I will only beg pardon for mentioning one of the moral reflections made by one of the emissaries of the Commune at the commencement of this scene. I had occasion to pronounce the name of God. “Stop,” said he to me, flourishing his revolver, “if God existed and should descend here, it is he I would shoot first!”

It was half-past five. My situation became less critical. These men, at first so ferocious, now treated me with politeness. The most brutal seemed almost ashamed of having insulted me. I was able to request the national guards appointed to watch over the Madeleine not to allow anything to be removed or desecrated. I also begged that the faithful employees of the church might have the liberty of returning home. The delegate charged to arrest me could no longer deceive himself. He became almost affable. I will not mention his name. He sufficiently dishonored the family from which he sprang by his deeds. A week after, by a coincidence worthy of note, he directed from the Madeleine the fight on the Boulevard Malesherbes. More strongly resisted than he had expected, he found himself with two of his agents hedged in by the Versailles troops, and sought shelter in the cellar of the church. An officer of the line shot him with a revolver, fracturing his skull. This prodigal child had become hardened in sin: unworthy of pardon and mercy, he had become incapable of repentance.

I arrived at the préfecture de police at a quarter past six, accompanied by a staff-officer of the Commune. I was as yet but little preoccupied about my situation, but when told that I was to appear at once before citizen Ferré, the _préfet de police_, who was regarded by men of penetration as another Robespierre, I felt that my case was extremely grave, and that, having but little to hope from man, I should confide myself to the protection of God.

II. 240

THE PREFECTURE DE POLICE AND MAZAS.

It is no easy matter to describe the singular scene at the préfecture de police, usually so quiet, so disciplined and solemn. This establishment had become noisier and more picturesque than a fair-ground. By way of contrast with the usual proceedings, robbers and other criminals now issued decrees of arrest and imprisonment, and they who were arrested and imprisoned were lovers of order and their duty.

The entrance was guarded by a crowd of national guardsmen, who had stopped drinking and smoking to laugh at the unfortunate victims of the hatred of the committee of public safety, who were arriving in large numbers. I had seen at the Madeleine the delegate who ordered my arrest give the staff-officer appointed to conduct me a five-franc piece to pay for the carriage. This honest man found it more suitable to leave this expense to his prisoner, and keep the five francs himself. It was a little contribution to the expenses of the war that I cheerfully paid. Like the misanthrope of Molière, I was almost glad to see the masters of Paris throw off the mask and add niggardliness to all kinds of violence. It was pleasant to be able to testify that a staff-officer of the Commune, the friend of Ferré and Raoul Rigault, the confidential agent of the committee of public safety, and one of the great dignitaries of the prefecture de police, committed a theft at my expense, and with an unceremoniousness that could not be found among the robbers and pickpockets of the worst quarters of the barriers.

After waiting three hours, I was summoned before citizen Ferré, the member of the Commune delegated to the ex-préfecture de police, which signifies in common language the _préfet de police_. He appeared to be from twenty-six to thirty years of age. He was no longer the ten-years student and the burlesque writer for the small journals of the Latin quarter, who gave himself up to pleasure on those rare festivals when the proceeds of his pen allowed him to revel at the public balls at the crossway of the Observatory. He had exchanged his worn clothes for a more elegant suit, his old pointed hat for a cap with gold spangles. Carelessly seated in a superb arm-chair in the luxurious office where Delessert, Maupas, and Pietri had labored, he gave orders to his subordinates with the solemnity and self-sufficiency of a pasha. I am mistaken; the great pashas I saw while travelling in the East were only inferior rulers beside him; he realized with admirable precision the fantastic idea I had formed of a Chinese mandarin of the first class.

After making a salutation which he doubtless did not find proportionate to his dignity, I requested permission in respectful and sufficiently humble tones to appear as promptly as possible before the _juge d’instruction_. He interrupted me in a dry and haughty tone: “Be silent, citizen. You are here to listen to me, and not to talk!”

I had never met with so humiliating a reception. It is true I had never been in the presence of insolence personified. I immediately drew from my pocket a number of the _Journal Officiel de la Commune_ which I had been carefully keeping for three days, and which contained a recent decree by virtue of which all individuals arrested should appear before the _juge d’instruction_ within twenty-four hours or be 241 restored to liberty.

“I wished at first, sir,” I firmly replied, “to solicit a favor, now I claim a right. By virtue of the decree of the Commune which I am going to read to you, I demand the right to appear within twenty-four hours before a _juge d’instruction_.”

Our arrogant mandarin shrugged his shoulders, and smiled, as if to say, “Here is a simpleton who still believes in the decrees of the Commune!”

“Captain, conduct this citizen to prison,” was his only reply. On Wednesday, the twenty-fourth of May, at half-past seven in the evening, I noticed through the bars of my cell my mandarin transformed into a bloodthirsty tiger, crossing the court of La Roquette and giving orders for the immediate execution of the Archbishop of Paris, M. Bonjean, M. Deguerry, and their three companions.

My situation assumed a more gloomy aspect than I had anticipated. I had been arrested as one of the last hostages, and was at the mercy of a band of ruffians who were exasperated to madness by the approach of the Versailles army. I did not lose courage in my misfortunes. Convinced by the example of the staff-officer who had robbed me of five francs that I still had one means of alleviating my lot, I henceforth placed all my confidence in the infinite mercy of God, without forgetting a generous distribution of pieces of a hundred sous. I immediately slipped two into the hands of my jailer, who was profuse in his bows, and gave me an exceptional testimony of his gratitude, in his way, by shutting me up in the cell that had been occupied by M. Deguerry. I told him that, lacking everything, I must absolutely write my friends that evening, and begged him not to send my letter through the office. As he objected, I told him I needed money, and, if I were not at once supplied, I should not be able to acknowledge, as was my practice, the kind services of the good officials with whom I had to deal. At this, what had been impossible was instantly effected.

I wrote to the Presbytère of the Madeleine for money and other effects; then I added what I considered very important, and wished not to be seen at the office, that they must not speak to any one of my arrest, or write me a single line, or, especially, take any steps for my release. To pass unperceived and confounded in the crowd of prisoners was my only chance of safety. I remained faithful to this principle to the end.

Having had no food since ten o’clock in the morning, I asked for something to eat. They told me it was too late, that the dinner was at five o’clock, and the regulations allowed nothing afterwards. The same accident occurred several times, and owing to other obstacles I was no more fortunate about sleeping. I will say, for the edification of those who wish to get an idea of the _régime_ of the Commune, that at the end of ten days’ imprisonment I returned home, after having dined twice and slept two hours and a half. My friends declared that I looked ten years older; but, knowing the truly French elasticity of my temperament, I consoled them with the assurance that ten days of freedom would make me ten years younger, which has proved true.

During the night, prisoners were continually being brought in. Among them were some members of the national guards of the Commune, who, through insubordination and drunkenness, became my companions in captivity. They kept up a terrific noise. Some cried as loud as they 242 could bawl: “Vive la République! Vive la Commune!” Others thought they were at a club, and, all speaking at once, advocated in discordant tones the abolition of capital, the death of the priests, the freedom of woman, and other benefits of social revolution.

Just after midnight, a confederate officer was brought into one of the neighboring cells who was indebted to too copious libations for the eloquence of a Demosthenes and the strength of a Hercules. This patriot thought himself confronting the Prussians, among whom he made frightful carnage. “Now it is your turn, you bully of a Bismarck! Now you, William, you rascal! You shall see what a patriot and a republican can do!” Then he would throw himself on to the door of his cell, and pound and kick it. This continued till daybreak. The heroic avenger of the national honor made me forget for a time the singular insolence of Ferré, and more than once I laughed at his manly eloquence and glorious feats in battle. I took pleasure in retaining, in the midst of the extravagances and crimes of the Commune, a bitter remembrance of the crushing and humiliating proceedings of Prussia.