At about five o'clock, whilst Maurice and his comrades were finally retreating to seek the shelter of the barricades in the Rue du Bac, making their way from door to door down the Rue de Lille and still firing as they went, the young fellow suddenly perceived a mass of dense black smoke pouring out of an open window of the palace of the Legion of Honour. It was the first of the conflagrations kindled in Paris; and in the furious insanity that now possessed him he experienced a fierce delight. The hour had come: might the whole city flare like a huge sacrificial pyre, might fire purify the world! But all at once he was overcome with astonishment. Five or six men had just rushed out of the palace, led by a big fellow in whom he recognised Chouteau, his former comrade in the 106th of the Line. Maurice had caught sight of the scamp once before, just after the 18th of March, when he was already wearing the gold-laced cap of an officer. Since then he must have risen in rank, for his uniform was now covered with galloons. Maybe he was attached to the staff of some Communist general who shirked fighting; and indeed Maurice suddenly remembered that a comrade had told him various anecdotes of this fellow Chouteau, who had been quartered at this very palace of the Legion of Honour, where in the company of his mistress he had led a life of continual jollity, lying booted and spurred in the sumptuous beds, and smashing the plate-glass mirrors with shots from his revolver just by way of a lark. It was asserted, too, that his mistress, under pretence of going to market, drove out every morning in a gala carriage, in which she carried away bales of linen, clocks, and even articles of furniture. Thus, when Maurice caught sight of the rogue running away with his men, and still carrying a can of petroleum, he experienced a sensation of uneasiness, a frightful doubt, a wavering of all the blind faith which had been buoying him up. Was it possible that the great work could be evil, since it had such a man as Chouteau for its artisan?
Several hours elapsed and still he fought, but in a distressful fashion, conscious of no feeling save a sombre determination to die. If he had erred, might he atone for his error with his blood! The barricade at which he found himself barred the Rue de Lille at the point where this street was intersected by the Rue du Bac. It was a formidable one, strongly built of sandbags and barrels of earth and faced by a deep ditch. Maurice was holding it with barely a dozen Federals, all of them reclining among the sandbags, and with unerring aim picking off every soldier who showed himself. Without moving, without even speaking a word, such was the dogged sullenness of his despair, the young fellow continued exhausting his cartridges until night closed in, watching meantime the growth of the clouds of smoke which were pouring out of the palace of the Legion of Honour, and were swept down into the street by the wind. The flames were not yet visible in the waning daylight. Another conflagration had broken out in a neighbouring mansion. And all at once a comrade ran up to Maurice and warned him that the soldiers, not daring to advance down the street, were approaching through the gardens and houses skirting it, cutting their way through the walls with picks. The end was at hand; the troops might emerge on that very spot at any moment. And, indeed, on a shot being fired from a window above him, he looked up and again saw Chouteau and his men, who were now frantically climbing the stairs of the corner houses on either hand, carrying lighted torches as well as cans of petroleum. Half an hour later, the whole crossway was flaring under the black sky, and Maurice, still reclining behind the barrels and the bags, profited by the vivid light to shoot down any of the soldiers who were imprudent enough to leave the shelter of the doorways and show themselves in the street.
How long did he keep on firing? He no longer had any consciousness of time or place. It might be nine o'clock, ten o'clock perhaps. The abominable work in which he was engaged now gave him a sensation of nausea, as though he were drunk with some loathsome wine which kept on rising from his stomach. Now that the houses were flaming all around, an intense heat, a burning, asphyxiating atmosphere was beginning to envelop him. The crossway, barred on every side by piles of paving stones, had become an intrenched camp which the conflagrations defended with shower after shower of brands. And were not these the orders? To set each district on fire as, one by one, its barricades were abandoned, to check the advance of the troops by a devouring line of furnaces, to burn down progressively each portion of Paris which they, the insurgents, might be forced to surrender? And Maurice already realised that the houses of the Rue du Bac were not the only ones that were burning. Behind him an immense ruddy glow suffused the sky, and he could hear a distant roar as though the whole city were catching fire. Along the Seine, on the right bank, some other gigantic conflagrations must be bursting forth. He had long since seen Chouteau hurry away, fleeing the bullets. One by one, moreover, the most desperate of his comrades took themselves off, terrified by the idea that they might now at any moment be outflanked; and at last he remained there all alone, and was still lying between two sandbags with the one thought of defending the front of the barricade, when all at once some soldiers, having made their way through the courtyards and gardens of the Rue de Lille, came out by a house in the Rue du Bac and swooped down from the rear.
For two long days, amid the excitement of that supreme struggle, Maurice had not given a thought to Jean; nor had Jean since entering Paris with his regiment, which had been adjoined to General Bruat's division, for a single moment remembered his friend Maurice. On the previous day, the corporal had spent his time firing upon the insurgents on the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides; and on this, the second, the terrible day of the fighting, he had not left the Place du Palais Bourbon till about noon, when he and his comrades were sent forward to capture the barricades of the neighbourhood as far as the Rue des Saints-Pères. He, usually so calm, had gradually become quite exasperated by that fratricidal war, somewhat influenced in this respect by his comrades, all of whom ardently longed for a rest after so much fatigue and privation. The men who had spent long months as prisoners of war in Germany, and who had only been brought back to France to be re-incorporated in the army, felt thoroughly enraged with Paris; and Jean, for his part, was further incensed by all that he had heard of the abominations of the Commune—deeds which struck at his belief in the rights of ownership, and at his desire for orderly government. He was still the sensible, sober-minded peasant, personifying the very foundation of the nation, desirous of peace in order that one might again begin working, earning money, and recruiting health and strength. And in the growing wrath which now carried away all thought even of his most tender affections, he was especially maddened by the deeds of the incendiaries. What! burn down houses, burn down palaces, simply because one was not the stronger; no, no, anything but that! Only bandits could do such things. And he, who only the day before had been grieved by the summary executions of the Communists captured by the troops, had now lost all control over himself and was like a madman, striking and shouting fiercely, with his eyes starting from their sockets.
It was with a rush that he debouched into the Rue du Bac, followed by the few men of his squad. At first he could distinguish no one, and fancied that the barricade had been altogether abandoned. Then, over yonder, between two sandbags, he caught sight of a Communist who was moving, levelling his gun again, about to fire down the Rue de Lille. And, thereupon, under the furious propulsion of Destiny, he ran up and nailed the man to the barricade with a thrust of his bayonet.
Maurice had not had time to turn. He gave a shriek and raised his head. The conflagrations lighted up both men with a blinding blaze.
'Oh! Jean, my old friend, Jean, is it you?'
Die? Yes, willingly; he was desperately impatient for death. But to die by his brother's hand was too hard; it marred his death—poisoned it with an abominable bitterness.
'Is it you then, Jean—my old Jean?'