“Considering that the Government of Versailles has wantonly trampled on the rights of humanity, and set at defiance the rights of war; that it has perpetrated horrors such as even the invaders of our soil have shrunk from committing;
“Considering that the representatives of the Commune of Paris have an imperative duty devolving upon them,—that of defending the lives and honour of two millions of inhabitants, who have committed their destinies to their charge; and that it behoves them at once to take measures equal to the gravity of the situation;
“Considering that the politicians and magistrates of the city ought to reconcile the general weal with respect for public liberty,
“Decrees:
“Art. 1. All persons charged with complicity with the Government of Versailles will be immediately brought to justice and incarcerated.
“Art. 2. A ‘jury, of accusation’ will be summoned within the twenty-four hours to examine the charges brought before it.
“Art. 3. The jury must pass sentence within the forty-eight hours.
“Art. 4. All the accused, convicted by the jury, will be retained as hostages by the People of Paris.
“Art. 6. Every execution of a prisoner of war, or of a member of the regular Government of the Commune of Paris, will be at once followed by the execution of a triple number of hostages, retained by virtue of article 4, who will be chosen by lot.
“Art. 6. All prisoners of war will be summoned before the ‘jury of accusation,’ who will decide whether they be immediately set at liberty or retained as hostages.”
[38] Prison of Detention.
[39] The following is still more naïve:—A man takes a return-ticket for the environs, and sometimes finds a guard silly enough to allow him to pass on the supposition that such a ticket was sufficient proof of his intention of returning to Paris.
Others get into the waiting-room without tickets, under the pretext of speaking to some one there.
M. Bergerat, a poet, passed the barrier in a cart-load of charcoal.
Colonel Flourens.[[40]]
XXXI.
Flourens is dead: we heard that last night for certain. A National Guard had previously brought back the colonel’s horse from Bougival, but it was only a few hours ago that we heard any details. An attempt was made to take him prisoner at Rueil. A gendarme called out to him to surrender, he replied by a pistol shot; another gendarme advanced, and wounded him in the side, a third cleft his skull with a sabre out. Some people do not believe in the pistol shot, and talk of assassination. How many such events are there, the truth of which will never be clearly proved! One thing certain is, that Flourens is dead. His body was recognised at Versailles by some one in the service of Garnier frères. His mother started this morning to fetch the corpse of her son. It is strange that one is so painfully affected by the violent death of this man. He has been mixed up in all the revolutionary attempts of the last few years, and ought to be particularly obnoxious to all peaceful and order-loving citizens; but the truth is, his was a sincerely ardent and enthusiastic spirit. He was a thorough believer in the principles he maintained. Whatever may be the religion he professes, the apostle inspires esteem, and the martyr compassion. This apostle, this martyr, was born to affluence; son of an illustrious savant, he may be almost said to have been born to hereditary distinction. He was still quite young when he threw himself heart and soul into politics. There was fighting in Crete, and so off he went. There he revolted against the revolt itself, got imprisoned, escaped, outwitted the gendarmes, got retaken: his adventures sound like a legend or romance. It is because he was so romantic, that he is so interesting. He returned to France full of generous impulses. He was as prodigal of his money as he had been of his blood. In the bitter cold winters he fed and clothed the poor of Belleville, going from attic to attic with money and consolation. You remember what Victor Hugo says of the sublime Pauline Roland. The spirit of Flourens much resembled hers. The patriot could act the part of a sister of charity. At other times, an enthusiast in search of a social Eldorado, he would put himself at the service of the most forlorn cause; never was anyone so imprudent. He was of a most active and critical disposition: it was impossible for him to remain quiet. When he was not seemingly employed, he was agitating something in the shade. His friendship for Rochefort was great. These two turbulent spirits, one with his pen, the other with his physical activity, remind us each of the other. Both ran to extremes, Rochefort in his literary invectives, Flourens in his hairbreadth adventures. Although they were often allied, these two, they were sometimes opposed. Have you never, seen two young artists in a studio performing the old trick, one making a speech, while the other, with his head and body hidden in the folds of a cloak, stretches forth his arms and executes the most extravagant gestures? Rochefort and Flourens performed this farce in politics, the former talking, the latter gesticulating; but on the day of the burial of Victor Noir they went different ways. On that day Rochefort, to do him justice, saved a large multitude of men from terrible danger. Flourens, always the same, wished the body to be carried to Père Lachaise; on the road there must have been a collision; that was what he desired, but he was defeated. The tongue prevailed, a hundred thousand cries of vengeance filled the air, but they were only cries, and no mischief was done, except to a few graves in the Neuilly cemetery. Flourens awaited a better occasion, but by no means passively. He was a man of barricades; he did not seem to think that paving-stones were made to walk on, he only cared to see them heaped up across a street for the protection of armed patriots. Although he always wore the dress of a gentleman, he was not one of those black-coated individuals who incite the men to rebellion and keep out of the way while the fight is going on; he helped to defend the barricades he had ordered to be thrown up. Wherever there was a chance of being killed, he was sure to be; and in the midst of all this he never lost his placid expression, nor the politeness of a gentleman, nor the look of extreme youth which beamed from his eyes, and must have been on his face even when he fell under the cruel blows of the gendarmes. Now he is dead. He is judged harshly, he is condemned, but he cannot be hated. He was a madman, but he was a hero. The conduct of Flourens at the Hôtel de Ville in the night of the 31st October is hardly in keeping with so favourable a view. The French forgive and forget with facility—let that pass.
NOTES: