On Saturday morning, one of the employees of the library, who manifested a solicitude beyond all praise, gave me, with tears in his eyes, the most minute details about the extent of the sad event. At five o’clock, an emissary of the Commune entered the first story of the western side, and called out: “Citoyens, attention to the roll: here, fifteen are wanted!” Among these victims were the Jesuit Fathers Olivaint, Caubert, and De Bengy; the four principal Fathers of the Society of Picpus: Abbé Sabattier, the second vicar of Notre Dame de Lorette: Abbé Seigneret, a young pupil of the Seminary of St. Sulpice; and Abbé Planchat, a genuine missionary, who displayed all the zeal of an apostle, not in China or Japan, but among the working-classes of the Faubourg St. Antoine. About forty gendarmes, soldiers, officers of the peace, and Parisian guardsmen were also summoned, the most of whom were imprisoned in the first story of our building to the east. They were conducted to Belleville, preceded by drums and trumpets, into one of the courts of the Rue Haxo. All the long way, a furious crowd, among whom
women made themselves conspicuous by a frenzy bordering on drunkenness, vomited forth threats and imprecations. After shooting them with chassepots and revolvers, they mutilated their bodies with kicks and the butt-end of their muskets, and afterwards threw them pell-mell into a cellar, whence they were taken out three days after in a state of advanced putrefaction.
The most incredulous saw their last hour approaching, and I prepared myself once more to die. The insurgents stole or burned the things left in the cells. I placed my watch, papers, and my testamentary dispositions in the care of the employee at the library, with the names of the persons to whom he was to transmit them. I earnestly desired my body might receive a suitable burial, and, not knowing what means to take that it might be recognized, I communicated my anxiety to the Abbé Amodru, my neighbor. He had foreseen, and provided for, the difficulty, and, following his example, I wrote my name in legible characters upon several small slips of paper, which I put into my shoes and the different pockets of my habit.
It was the eve of Whit-Sunday. Having no longer the strength to kneel, I seated myself on my bed, and took sometimes my breviary, and then The Following of Christ in my hands. I prayed God for courage and a spirit of sacrifice. In reading the Thirtieth Psalm, I was struck with these words: “Let me not be confounded, O Lord, for I have called upon thee!... Thou shalt protect them in thy tabernacle from the contradiction of tongues. Blessed be the Lord, for he hath shown his wonderful mercy to me, a fortified city.” But I immediately distrusted the hopes that so readily pervaded my soul I wished to remain facing the sad realities of death.
The constantly increasing noise of the firing announced the approach of the contending parties. The barricades of the Château d’Eau had been valiantly taken by the Versailles troops: the Commune, in session at the Mairie du Prince Eugène, was obliged to beat a retreat. By a great effort, the scattered members sucoeeded in gaining the office of La Roquette, to conduct the labors of the cosmopolitan banditti. Between the army of deliverance and us were still those men of blood, whose last ravings were so many decrees of death and incendiarism. It is said that Ferré sprang like a tiger about to lose his prey, crying in a hoarse voice: “Make haste! shoot them, the chouans! Cut their throats, the robbers! do not leave one standing! Citoyens and citoyennes of the faubourgs, come and avenge your sons and your fathers, basely assassinated!” The unhappy men had no time to lose; the Versailles troops, on the one hand, were entering the Boulevard du Prince Eugène; on the other, they surrounded Père-la-Chaise; but, by an intolerable fatality, the source of our safety was at the same time that of our destruction.
A few minutes past three, the heavy bolts of our cells flew back with unaccustomed quickness. I was on my knees, saying, with a voice almost extinct, the office of the Eve of Whit-Sunday. My neighbor quickly opened the door of my cell. “Courage,” he said, “it is now our turn; they are going to take us all down to shoot us!”
“Courage,” I replied, “and may the will of God be done!” I had on my clerical costume, and advanced into the corridor where priests, soldiers, and national guards were all mingled together. The priests and national guards appeared calm and
resigned, but the soldiers could not believe in the fate that awaited them. “What have we done to those wretches? we fought against the Prussians! we fulfilled our duty! What are they going to shoot us for? No, it is not possible!” Some uttered cries of anger, others remained silent and motionless as if they were in a dream. The priests knelt to fortify themselves by a last absolution; one of them urged the soldiers to imitate us, and addressed them some words of encouragement.
A voice with a metallic ring suddenly rose above this confused noise: “My friends, those ignoble villains have already killed too many; do not allow yourselves to be murdered; join me; let us resist; let us fight. Rather than give you up, I will die with you!” It was the voice of the warden Pinet. This generous son of Lorraine, aghast at so many crimes, could no longer stifle his indignation. Charged to open our cells slowly and deliver us two by two to the insurgents, who were waiting for us below, he had fastened the door of the third story behind him, rapidly opened our cells to advise us and aid in organizing a resistance, ready to sacrifice his life in aiding us to save ours. At first, I could not believe in so much heroism. The Abbé Amodru spoke in his turn, and joined his protestations to those of Pinet: “Let us not submit to be shot, my friends, let us defend ourselves. Have confidence in God; he is for us and with us; he will save us!”
There was a difference of opinion; some hesitated. To defend ourselves, objected one, would be madness; we should only incur a more cruel death. Instead of being simply shot, we shall be slaughtered by a mob or consumed in the flames. “Let us call up the national guards,” exclaimed a simple fellow (I had not believed