xecuted, though he saw the procession
pass and heard the firing. Out of 16 priests and 38 gendarmes confined
in the prison, 26 were shot, and the fate of the remainder had been
decided upon when an attempt to escape made by the criminal prisoners,
who were the original occupants of the gaol, succeeded, and with the
help of one of the gaolers the whole body made an attack upon the
Insurgent guard, who, in fact, did not wait for it, but abandoned their
post as soon as they perceived that all their prisoners were at liberty.
The priests succeeded in changing their clerical costume, but not in
sufficiently disguising themselves, for M. Petit saw four of his
companions shot at the first barricade they reached; he therefore fled
back to his prison, and, finding a common prison shirt, he reduced his
costume to that garments and took refuge in a bed in the hospital ward.
The prison was not again guarded, but those who casually passed through
it supposed him to be a sick prisoner not worth notice; and here he
remained until Sunday evening, when his suspense was put an end to by
the arrival of the soldiery. In the Chapelle Ardente of the Madeleine
lies the body of the _cure_ of that church, who was shot by the side of
the Archbishop, and a stream of persons, mostly women, with saddened,
awe-struck faces passed through it all yesterday afternoon. The body of
the Archbishop has been recovered, and is at the Palace.

I have now explored Paris in every direction to judge with some degree
of accuracy of the extent of the damage done, but I will spare you any
detailed account of those scenes of havoc and ruin, that I have partly
described already which differ in their character according to the agent
of destruction, and which consist of ruins caused by shells and ruins
caused by fire. Houses which have been destroyed by shells present a far
more ghastly appearance than those which have been burnt, and the aspect
of the street at Point du Jour is calculated to strike the imagination
of those who are now entering Paris for the first time from Versailles
by that gate. The same may be said of the houses on both sides of the
Avenue de la Grande Armee, and in the neighbourhood of the Porte
Maillot; but nothing that I have seen equals the Auteuil Railway
Station, where the building, the line, and the railway bridge have all
been crumpled up together, as if some giant hand had squeezed them into
a shapeless mass. The iron bridge still spans the