LXXX.
I am beginning to regret Cluseret. He was impatient, especially in speech. He used to say “Every man a National Guard!” But with Cluseret, as with one’s conscience, there were possible conciliations. You had only to answer the decrees of the war-delegate by an enthusiastic “Why I am delighted, indeed I was just going to beg you to send me to the Porte-Maillot;” which having done, one was free to go about one’s business without fear of molestation. As to leaving Paris, in spite of the law which condemned every man under forty to remain in the city; nothing was easier. You had but to go to the Northern Railway Station, and prefer your request to a citizen, seated at a table behind a partition in the passport office.[[87]] When he asked you your age you had only to answer “Seventy-eight,” passing your hand through your sable locks as you spoke—“Only that? I thought you looked older,” the accommodating individual would answer, at the same time putting into your hand a paper on which was written some cabalistic sign. One day I had taken it into my head to go and spend two hours at Bougival, and my pass bore the strange word “Carnivolus” written on it. Provided with this mysterious document, I was enabled to procure a first-class ticket and jump into the next train that started. I was free, and nothing could have prevented my going, if such had been my wish, to proclaim the Commune at Mont Blanc or Monaco.
How the times are changed! The Committee of Public Safety and the Central Committee now join together in making the lives of the poor réfractaires[[88]] a burthen to them. I do not speak of the disarmaments, which have nothing particularly disagreeable about them, for an unarmed man may clearly nourish the hope that he is not to be sent to battle. But there are other things, and I really should not object to be a little over eighty for a few days. Domiciliary visits have become very frequent. Four National Guards walk into the house of the first citizen they please, and politely or otherwise, explain to him that it is his strict duty to go into the trenches at Vanves and kill as many Frenchmen as he can. If the citizen resists he is carried off, and told that on account of his resistance he will have the honour of being put at the head of his battalion at the first engagement. These visits often end in violence. I am told that in the Rue Oudinot a young man received a savage bayonet thrust because he resisted the corporal’s order; and as these occurrences are not uncommon, the réfractaires cannot be said to live in peace and comfort. They are subject to continual terror, the sour visage of their concierge fills them with misgivings, he may be one of the Commune. As to going to bed, it must not be thought of; it is during the hours of night that the Communal agents are particularly active. This necessity of changing domicile has lead to certain Amélias and Rosalines and other ladies of that description having the words “Hospitality to Réfractaires” written in pencil on their cards. Men who decline to take advantage of such opportunities have to go about from hôtel to hôtel, giving imaginary names, suspicious of the waiters, and awaking at the least sound, thinking it is the noise of feet ascending the stairs, or the rattle of muskets on the landing. The day before yesterday a number of réfractaires, having the courage of despair, walked to the Porte Saint-Ouen—“Will you let us out?” asked they of the commanding officer, who answered in a decided negative; whereupon the party, which was three hundred strong, fell upon the captain and his men, whom they disarmed, and five minutes afterwards they were running free across the fields.
Others employ softer means of corruption; resort to the wine-shops of Belleville, where they make themselves agreeable in every way, and soon succeed in entering into friendly conversation with some of the least ferocious among the Federals of the place.
Réfractaires Escaping from Paris
“You are on duty, Tuesday, at the Porte de la Chapelle?”—“Why, yes.”—“So that you might very easily let a comrade out who wants to go and pay a visit at Saint-Denis?”—“Quite out of the question; the others would prevent me, or denounce me to the captain.”—“You think there is nothing to be done with the captain?”—“Oh! no; he is a staunch patriot, he is!”—“How very tiresome; and I wanted most particularly to go to Saint-Denis on Tuesday evening. I would gladly give twenty francs out of my own pocket for the sake of a little walk outside the fortifications.”—“There is only one way.”—“And how is that?”—“You don’t care much about going out by the door, do you?”—“Well, no; what I want is to get outside.“—“Oh! then listen to me; come to La-Chapelle early on Tuesday evening, and walk up and down the rampart. I will try and be on duty at eight o’clock, and look out for you. When I see you I will take care not to say qui vive.”—“That’s easy enough; and what then?”—“Why, then I will secure around you a thick rope which of course you will have with you!”—“The devil!”—“And I will throw you into the trench.”—“By Jove! That will be a leap.”—“Oh! I will do it very carefully, without hurting you. I will let you slip softly down the wall.”—“Humph!”—“When you reach the ground below, in an instant you can be up and off into the darkness. Do you accept? Yes or no?”—“I should certainly prefer to drive out of the city in a coach and six, but nevertheless I accept.”
Generally, this plan answers admirably. They say that the Federals of Belleville and Montmartre make a nice little income with this kind of business. Sometimes, however, the plan only half succeeds, and either the rope breaks, or the Federal considers, he may manage capitally to reconcile his interest with his duty, by sending a ball after the escaped réfractaire.
Disguises are also the order of the day. A poet, whose verses were received at the Comédie Française with enthusiasm during the siege, managed to get away, thanks to an official on the Northern Railway, who lent him his coat and cap. Another poet—they are an ingenious race—conceived a plan of greater boldness. One day on the Boulevard he called a fiacre, having first taken care to choose a coachman of respectable age, “Cocher, drive to the Rue Montorgueil, to the best restaurant you can find.” On the way the poet reasoned thus to himself: “This coachman has in his pocket, as they all have, a Communal passport, which allows him to go out and come into Paris as he pleases; let me remember the fourth act of my last melodrama, and I am saved.”