Columns of troops, with heavy tramp and ringing
platoon volleys, disperse the rallying squads of rebels, or storm
barricade after barricade. Squadrons of cavalry whirl along, and
cut down both innocent and guilty.
After three awful days more, the six thousand bodies lying among
the tombs of Pere la Chaise tell that the last stronghold of the
Commune has been stormed. Belleville and Buttes de Chaumont are
piled with hundreds of corpses. The grim sergeants' squads are
hunting from house to house, bayoneting skulking fugitives, or
promptly shooting any persons found armed.
The noise of battle slowly sinks away. Flames and smoke soar to the
skies: the burnt offering now; the blood offering is nearly over.
Thirty superb palaces of the municipality are in flames. Under
Notre Dame's sacred roof, blackened brands and flooded petroleum
tell of the human fiends' visit.
The superb ruins of the Tuileries show what imperial France has
been. Its flaming debris runs with streams of gold, silver, and
melted crystal.
Banks, museums, and palaces have been despoiled. Boys and old
crones trade costly jewels in the streets for bread and rum. The
firing parties are sick of carnage.
Killing in cold blood ceases now, from sheer mechanical fatigue.
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