The Insurrection in Paris | Page 5

to march on Neuilly. Among the captives is an interesting looking young woman, in the uniform of a cantini��re. Poor thing, she is wounded and in hospital. Her story is that some months ago she became the wife of a young man, who after the breaking out of the Civil War was forced to serve in the ranks of the Insurgents. For eight days she was without any tidings of him, and in her despair she adopted the uniform in which she was wounded and captured, in order that she might visit all the outposts in search of her husband. She had not succeeded in finding him, and she does not know whether he is living. Had she been successful she would have died by his side rather than have been separated from him again. I am happy to say that the wound of this heroine is only slight, and that everything is being done to promote her recovery.
If the Insurgents have not actually re-taken the Clamart Station, the scene of the other slaughter, they have established themselves very close to it, in a cutting which forms a communication between the Station and a barricade on the line of railway. As the Station is under fire from Fort Vanves I have no doubt that the military found it impossible to hold it, and that if not now in it the Insurgents may re-occupy it whenever they like. Again, there was much boasting about the taking of the Chateau of Issy. We were told that it was an admirable position, completely screened from the insurgent fire, and affording an excellent vantage ground for riflemen. I saw it on fire yesterday. The Insurgents succeeded in making their shells reach it and making it very much too hot for the Chasseurs. The truth is the Insurgents have been doing the Versaillais quite as much damage as the latter have been inflicting on them. The fire from the batteries at and about the Point du Jour has been excellent. There must be artillerists there quite as good as any on this side. The manner in which the ruins of Fort Issy have been defended is surprising. There is not a roof or a window frame in one of its barracks, but from the embrasures in the earthworks the fire is still kept up from one or two points. To take it by assault would be a matter of no difficulty, but General Faron believes that it is mined, and even in its crippled position he won't venture to attack it at close quarters. With the exception of bayoneting some 500 poor wretches who could not defend themselves, taking a few hundred prisoners who are rather an embarrassment to them, and capturing a few cannon which they don't themselves want and which the Insurgents can easily replace, the Government has done nothing this week. In the words of the old peasant woman, C'est toujours la m��me r��p��tition.
MAY 7th.
In consequence of a large placard posted over the walls of Paris this morning I passed through the gate of the private garden of the Tuileries, and made my way, in company with a crowd of citizens of all classes, through the apartments occupied but a few months ago by the ex-Emperor and Empress. The printed invitation announced that we might see the rooms in which the "tyrant" had lived, for the modest sum of 50c., but that, should we think proper to take tickets for the concert, "whereby these saloons might be at length rendered useful to the people," we should be permitted to enjoy the extra show gratis. I took a ticket, and joined myself to a thick stream of people who belonged to every nationality and rank of life, and whose remarks and criticisms were most edifying. There were shopkeepers and their wives, only too delighted to take advantage of the mildest dissipation; gentlemen whose National Guard trousers were rendered respectable by the gray jacket or blouse of a citizen; humdrum housewives who approved everything, and gaped their admiration of so much gorgeous wall-colouring; there were flaunting ladies in bonnets of the latest fashion and marvellous petticoats, who criticized the curtains and pointed the parasol of scorn at faded draperies; people who felt the heavy hand of the spectre of departed glory, and people who exulted at beholding the hidden recesses of an Imperial mansion laid bare to the jokes and ribaldry of Belleville and La Villette. Every class of Parisian society was represented in the throng that swayed and hustled through the rooms, but the saddest sight of all was a knot or two of decrepit veterans from the Invalides who leant against the balustrade of the grand staircase, and gazed with pinched-up lips and dry eyes at the National Guards on duty, lounging