My Neighbour ‘en face’; business carries on as usual—My neighbour next door: who thinks himself fortunate
NOTES:
[110] The most reliable account of his death is given by a medical student who attended him in his last moments. “Dombrowski was passing with several members of the Commune in the Rue Myrrha, near the Rue des Poissonniers, when he was struck by a bullet, which traversed the lower part of his body. He was carried to a neighbouring chemist’s, where I bandaged the wound. Before his transportation to the Lariboisière Hospital, he ordered the fire to cease, but the troops defending the barricade disobeyed the injunction. His sword was handed by me to a captain of the 45th of the Line. His last words were nearly identical with those which he uttered as he fell: ‘I am no traitor!’” His worst enemies have said of him that he was a good soldier in a bad cause.
[111] At the prison of Sainte-Pélagie, on Tuesday, the 23rd of May, the unfortunate gendarmes, who had been made prisoners on the 18th, were shot, together with M. Chaudey, a writer, on the Siècle, arrested at the office of the journal, and conducted, first to Mazas and afterwards to Sainte-Pélagie. ([Appendix 11]).
According to the Siècle, the “Procureur” of the Commune, Raoul Rigault, presented himself, at the office at about eleven at night, and having sent for M. Chaudey, said to him, without any preamble: “I am here to tell you that you have not an hour to live.”
“You mean to say that I am to be assassinated,” replied Chaudey.
“You are to be shot, and that directly,” was the other’s rejoinder.
But, on reaching the prison, the National Guards who had been summoned refused to do the odious work, and the Procureur went himself to find others more docile. Chaudey was led before them, Raoul Rigault drew his sword to give the signal, the muskets were levelled and fired, and Chaudey fell, but wounded only. A sergeant gave him the death blow by discharging his pistol at his head. The next day, a hundred and fifty hostages of the Commune, confined at the Prefecture of Police, amongst whom were Prince Galitzin and Andreoli, a journalist, were about to be shot by an order of Ferré, when the incendiary fires broke out and prevented the execution of the order. At eleven o’clock, Raoul Rigault commanded the prisoners to be released, and enjoined them to fight for the Commune; upon their refusal, a shower of balls was discharged at them. The prisoners rushed for refuge into the Rue du Harlay, which was in flames, and were afterwards rescued by a detachment of the line.
That same day was fatal to Raoul Rigault. He was perceived by a party of infantry at the moment when he was ringing at the door of a house in the Rue Gay Lussac. His colonel’s uniform instantly made him a mark for the soldiers; he had time to enter the house, however, but was soon discovered, gave his name, and allowed himself to be taken off towards the Luxembourg, but before reaching it, he began to shout, “Vive la Commune!” “Down with the assassins!” and made an effort to escape. The soldiers thrust him against a wall and shot him down.
The next day, the 24th, marked the fate of the hostages, who, in expectation of an attack of the Versaillais, had been transferred from Mazas to La Roquette. “Monseigneur Darboy,” writes an eye-witness (Monsieur Dubutte, miraculously saved by an error of name), “occupied cell No. 21 of the 4th division, and I was at a short distance from him, in No. 26. The cell in which the venerable prelate was confined had been the office of one of the gaolers; it was somewhat larger than the rest, and Monseigneur’s companions in captivity had succeeded in obtaining for him a chair and a table. On Wednesday, the 24th, at half-past seven in the evening, the director of the prison—a certain Lefrançais, who had been a prisoner in the hulks for the space of six years—went up, at the head of fifty Federals, into the gallery, near which the most important prisoners were incarcerated. Here they ranged themselves along the walls, and a few moments later one of the head-gaolers opened the door of the archbishop’s cell, and called him out. The prelate answered, “I am here!” Then the gaoler passed on to M. le President Bonjean’s cell ([Appendix 12]), then to that of Abbé Allard, member of the International Society in Aid of the Wounded; of Père du Coudray, Superior of the School of Ste-Geneviève; and Père Clère, of the Brotherhood of Jesus; the last called being the Abbé Deguerry, curé of the Madeleine. As the names were called, each prisoner was led out into the gallery and down the staircase to the courtyard; each side, as far as I could judge, was lined with Federal guards, who insulted the prisoners in language that I cannot repeat. Amid the hues and cries of these wretches my unfortunate companions were conducted across the courtyard to the infirmary, before which a file of soldiers were drawn up for the execution. Monseigneur Darboy advanced and addressed his murderers—addressed them words of pardon: then two of the men approached the prelate, and falling on their knees implored his pardon. The rest of the Federals threw themselves upon them, and thrust them aside with oaths, then, turning to the prisoners, they heaped fresh insults upon them. The chief officer of the detachment, however, imposed silence on the men, and uttering an oath, said, ‘You are here to shoot these men, not to insult them.’ The Federals were silenced, and upon the command of their lieutenant, they loaded their muskets.
“Père Allard was placed against the wall, and was the first who was struck; then Monseigneur Darboy fell, and the six prisoners were thus shot in turn, showing, at this supreme moment, a saintly dignity and a noble courage.”
C.
Where are these men going with hurried steps, and with lanterns in their hands? Their uniform is that of the National Guard, and consequently of Federals, but the tricolour band which they wear on the arm would seem to indicate that they belong to the Party of Order. They are making their way by one of the entries of the sewers, and preceded by an officer are disappearing beneath the sombre vaults. Calling to mind the sinister expression of a Communal artillery commander—“The reactionary quarters will all be blown up; not one shall be spared,” it is impossible to avoid feeling a shudder of terror. What if the incendiaries all wearing the badge of the Party of Order, be about to set fire to mines prepared beforehand, or to barrels of petroleum ready to be staved in! The wild demons of the Commune are capable of everything; an invention of incendiary firemen is quoted as an example of the diabolical genius which presided over the work of destruction; individuals wearing the fireman’s uniform were seen to throw combustible liquids by means of pumps and pails on the burning houses, instead of aiding to extinguish the flames.
Paris Underground