Gloomy nights close sad and dreary
days. From Issy and Vanvres huge shells curve their airy flight,
to carry havoc from French guns into French ranks.
Hell seems to have vomited forth its scum. Uncanny beings lurk at
the corners. Wild with cognac and absinthe, the unruly mob commits
every wanton act which unbridled wickedness can suggest. Good men
are powerless, and women exposed to every insult. Public trade is
suspended. Robbery and official pillage increase. The creatures of
a day give way quickly to each other. Gallant Rossell, who passed
the Prussian lines to serve France, indignantly sheathes his sword.
He is neither a Nero nor a mountebank.
Alas, for the talented youth! a death volley from his old engineer
troops awaits him at the Buttes de Chaumont. To die the dishonored
death of a felon, a deserter!
Alas, for France: bright of face and hard of heart! Tigress queen,
devouring your noblest children.
While Thiers proclaims the law, he draws around him the wreck of
a great army. A bloody victory over demented brethren hangs awful
laurels on the French sword: De Gallifet, Vinoy, Ducrot, L'Admirault,
Cissey, D'Aurelle de Palladines, Besson and Charrette surround the
unlucky veteran, Marshal McMahon, Duc de Magenta.
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