December 1. Trochu has established himself on the heights of Champigny.
December 2. Obstinate fight around Brie and Champigny.
December 5. The cold is becoming constantly more powerful. Oh! the trembling, bleeding, wretched wights, who are lying out there in the snow, and dying. Even here in the city, there is terrible suffering from cold. Business has fallen to nothing. There is no firing to be had. What would not many an one give if there were only two little pieces of wood to be had—even the certainty of the throne of Spain!
December 21. Sortie out of Paris.
December 25. A small detachment of Prussian cavalry was saluted with musket shot (that is a patriotic duty) from the houses of the villages of Troo and Sougé. General Kraatz commanded the punishment of the villages (that is a commander’s duty) and had them burnt. “Set them on fire,” was the word of command, and the men, probably gentle, good-natured fellows, obeyed (that is the soldier’s duty), and set fire to them. The flames burst up to heaven, and the poor homesteads fell crashing, on man, wife, and child—on flying, weeping, roaring, burning men and beasts.
What a joyous, happy, holy Christmas night!
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Is Paris to be starved out, or bombarded as well?
Against the last supposition the civilised conscience revolts. To bombard this ville-lumière, this point of attraction of all nations, this brilliant home of the arts—bombard it with its irreplaceable riches and treasures, like the first fort that comes to hand! It is not to be thought of. The whole neutral press (as I found out afterwards) protested against it. On the other hand, the press of the war party in Berlin was favourable to it: that would be the only way to bring the war to a close—and to conquer the city on the Seine, what glory! Besides, it was just these protests which determined certain circles at Versailles to seize this strategic weapon; and, after all, a bombardment is nothing. And so it came about that on December 28 I was writing in shaking characters: “Here it is—another heavy stroke—a pause—and again——”
I wrote no further, but I well remember the feelings of that day. In those words: “Here it is,” there lay, along with the terror, a kind of freedom, a relief, a cessation of the nervous expectation that had by that time become well nigh insufferable. What one had been for so long partly expecting and fearing, partly thinking hardly humanly possible, is now come. We were sitting at déjeûner à la fourchette, i.e., we were taking bread and coffee—food was getting scarce already—Frederick, Rudolf, the tutor and I—when the first stroke resounded. All of us raised our heads and exchanged glances. Is that it? But no. It may have been a house door slamming, or something of that sort. Now all was quiet. We resumed the talk that had been interrupted, without saying anything about the thought which that sound had caused. Then, after two or three minutes it came again. Frederick started up. “That is the bombardment,” he said, and hurried to the window. I followed him. A hubbub came in from the street. Groups had formed; the people were standing and listening, or were exchanging excited words.