Diary of the Besieged Resident in Paris | Page 4

of a London policeman were he to see himself marched
off to the station by a street-sweeper. That the Prussian should have
taken the Emperor prisoner, and have vanquished the French armies,
had, of course, astonished these worthy bureaucrats, but that they
should have ventured to interfere with postmen had perfectly
dumbfounded them. "Put your letter in that box," said a venerable
employé on a high stool. "Will it ever be taken out?" I asked. "Qui
sait?" he replied. "Shall you send off a train to-morrow morning?" I
asked. There was a chorus of "Qui sait?" and the heads disappeared still
further with the respective shoulders to which they belonged. "What do
you think of a man on horseback?" I suggested. An indignant
"Impossible" was the answer. "Why not?" I asked. The look of
contempt with which the clerks gazed on me was expressive. It meant,
"Do you really imagine that a functionary--a postman--is going to

forward your letters in an irregular manner?" At this moment a sort of
young French Jefferson Brick came in. Evidently he was a Republican
recently set in authority. To him I turned. "Citizen, I want my letter to
go to London. It is a press letter. These bureaucrats say that they dare
not send it by a horse express; I appeal to you, as I am sure you are a
man of expedients." "These people," he replied, scowling at the clerks,
"are demoralised. They are the ancient valets of a corrupt Court; give
me your letter; if possible it shall go, 'foi de citoyen.'" I handed my
letter to Jefferson, but whether it is on its way to England, or still in his
patriotic hands, I do not know. As I passed out through the courtyard I
saw postmen seated on the boxes of carts, with no horses before them.
It was their hour to carry out the letters, and thus mechanically they
fulfilled their duty. English Government officials have before now been
jeered at as men of routine, but the most ancient clerk in Somerset
House is a man of wild impulse and boundless expedient compared
with the average of functionaries great and small here. The want of
"shiftiness" is a national characteristic. The French are like a flock of
sheep without shepherds or sheep-dogs. Soldiers and civilians have no
idea of anything except doing what they are ordered to do by some
functionary. Let one wheel in an administration get out of order, and
everything goes wrong. After my visit to the post-office I went to the
central telegraph office, and sent you a telegram. The clerk was very
surly at first, but he said that he thought a press telegram would pass
the wires. When I paid him he became friendly. My own impression is
that my twelve francs, whoever they may benefit, will not benefit the
British public.
From the telegraph-office I directed my steps to a club where I was
engaged to dine. I found half-a-dozen whist tables in full swing. The
conversation about the war soon, however, became general. "This is
our situation," said, as he dealt a hand, a knowing old man of the world,
a sort of French James Clay: "generally if one has no trumps in one's
hand, one has at least some good court cards in the other suits; we've
got neither trumps nor court cards." "Et le General Trochu?" some one
suggested. "My opinion of General Trochu," said a General, who was
sitting reading a newspaper, "is that he is a man of theory, but
unpractical. I know him well; he has utterly failed to organise the forces

which he has under his command." The general opinion about Trochu
seemed to be that he is a kind of M'Clellan. "Will the Garde Nationale
fight?" some one asked. A Garde National replied, "Of course there are
brave men amongst us, but the mass will give in rather than see Paris
destroyed. They have their families and their shops." "And the
Mobiles?" "The Mobiles are the stuff out of which soldiers are made,
but they are still peasants, and not soldiers yet." On the whole, I found
the tone in "fashionable circles" desponding. "Can any one tell me
where Jules Favre has gone?" I asked. Nobody could, though
everybody seemed to think that he had gone to the Prussian
headquarters. After playing a few rubbers, I went home to bed at about
one o'clock. The streets were absolutely deserted. All the cafés were
shut.
Nothing in the papers this morning. In the Figaro an article from that
old humbug Villemessant. He calls upon his fellow-citizens in Paris to
resist to the death.
"One thing Frenchmen never forgive," he says,--"cowardice."
The Gaulois contains the most news. It represents the Prussians to be
all round Paris. At Versailles they