related this to me: Two enemies, a soldier of
the line and a Federal, had an encounter in the bathing
establishment of the Avenue de Neuilly, a little above
the Rue des Huissiers. Now pursuing, now flying
from each other in their bayonet-fight, they reached
the roof of the house, and there, flinging down their
arms, they closed in a mad struggle. On the sloping
roof, the tiles of which crush beneath them, at a
hundred feet from the ground, they struggled without
mercy, without respite, until at last the soldier
felt his strength give way, and endeavoured to escape
from the gripe of his adversary. Then, the Federal—the
person from whom I learnt this was at an opposite window
and lost not a single one of their movements—the
Federal drew a knife from his pocket and prepared
himself to strike his half-prostrate antagonist, who,
feeling that all hope was lost, threw himself flat
on the roof, seized his enemy by the leg, and dragging
him with him by a sudden movement, they rolled over
and fell on to the pavement below. Neither was
killed, but the soldier had his face crimsoned with
blood and dust, and the Federal, who had fallen across
his adversary, despatched him by plunging his knife
in his chest.
Such is this infamous struggle! Such is this
savage strife! Will it not cease until there
is no more blood to shed? In the meantime, Paris
of the boulevards, the elegant and fast-living Paris,
lounges, strolls, and smiles. In spite of the
numerous departures there are still enough blase dandies
and beauties of light locks and lighter reputation
to bring the blush to an honest man’s cheek.
The theatres are open; “La Piece du Pape”
is being played. Do you know “The Pope’s
Money?” It is a suitable piece for diverting
the thoughts from the horrors of civil war. A
year ago the Pope was supported by French bayonets,
but his light coinage would not pass in Paris.
Now Papal zouaves are killing the citizens of Paris,
and we take light silver and lighter paper. The
piece is flimsy enough. It is not its political
significance that makes it diverting, but the double-entendre
therein. One must laugh a little, you understand.
Men are dying out yonder, we might as well laugh a
little here. Low whispers in the baignoires,
munching of sugared violets in the stage boxes—everything’s
for the best. Mademoiselle Nenuphar (named so
by antithesis) is said to have the most beautiful eyes
in the world. I will wager that that handsome
man behind her has already compared them to mitraille
shot, seeing the ravages they commit. It would
be impossible to be more complimentary,—more
witty and to the point. Ah! look you, those who
are fighting at this moment, who to-day by their cannon
and chassepots are exposing Paris to a terrible revenge,
guilty as these men are, I hold them higher than those
who roar with laughter when the whole city is in despair,
who have not even the modesty to hide their joys from
our distresses, and who amuse themselves openly with
shameless women, while mothers are weeping for their
children!
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