h the
cartridge-magazine." The words had scarcely been uttered, when a storm
of balls fell like hail amongst us. Each person thought himself wounded,
and many took to their heels. It did not enter into my head to run away.
From where I was then, the sight was still more terribly beautiful, and
the crowd that had withdrawn from the spot soon re-assembled again.
Dreadful details were passed from mouth to mouth. Four five-storied
houses had fallen; no one dared to think even of the number of the
victims. Bodies had been seen to fall from the windows, horribly
mutilated; arms and legs had been picked up in different places. Near
the powder-magazine is a hospital, which was shaken from foundation to
roof: for an instant it had trembled violently as if it were going to
fall. The nurses, dressers, and even the sick had rushed from the wards,
shrieking in an agony of fear; the frightened horses, too, with blood
streaming down their sides, pranced madly among the fugitives, or
galloped away as fast as they could from the awful scene.

As to the cause of the explosion, opinions varied much. Some said it was
owing to the negligence of the overseers or the imprudence of the
workwomen; others, that the fire was caused by a shell. A woman rushed
up to us, screaming out that she had just seen a man arrested in a shed
in the Champ de Mars, who acknowledged having blown up the
powder-magazine, by order of the Versailles government. Of course this
was inevitable. The Commune would not let such a good opportunity pass
for accusing its enemies. A few innocent people will be arrested, tried
with more or less form, and shot; when they are so many corpses, the
Commune will exclaim, "You see they must have been guilty: they have
been shot!"

As evening came on I turned home, thinking that the cup was now filled
to overflowing, and that the devoted city had had to suffer defeat,
civil war, infamy, and death; but that this last disaster seemed almost
more than divine justice. Ever and anon I turned my head to gaze again.
In the gathering gloom, the flames looked blood-red, as if the Commune
had unfurled its sinister banner over that irreparable disaster.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 97: Razoua served in a regiment of Spahis in Africa. Becoming
acquainted with the journalists who used to frequent the Cafe de Madrid,
he was a constant attendant there. He took up literature, and in 1867
published some violent articles in the _Pilori_ of Victor Noir.