At eventide, the grim regulars
bayonet the last defenders of the redoubts at the Point du Jour
gates. The city is open to McMahon.
The lodgment once made, a two nights' bombardment adds to the
horrors of this living hell.
On the twenty-third, Montmartre's bloody shambles show how merciless
are the stormers. Dombrowski lies dead beside his useless guns.
All hope is lost. Murder and pillage reign in Paris.
Behind their doors, barricaded with the heavier furniture, the
family of Aristide Dauvray invoke the mercy of God. They are led
by Pere Francois, who thinks the awful Day of Judgment may be near.
Humanity has passed its limits. Fiends and furies are the men and
women, who, crazed with drink, swarm the blood-stained streets.
In their lines, far outside, the stolid Prussians joke over their
beer, as they learn of the wholesale murder finishing red Bellona's
banquet. "The French are all crazy." They laugh.
The twenty-fourth of May arrives. Paris is aflame. Battle unceasing,
storm of shell, rattle of rifles, and cannon balls skipping down
the Champs Elysees mark this fatal day. A deep tide of human blood
flows from the Madeleine steps to the Seine. The river is now
filled with bodies.
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