uarters of Paris
were known to be undermined, and it was only in the nick of time that
the Versailles troops arrived to prevent the execution of such written
orders as, "Faites sauter le quartier de la Bourse."

The fashionable quarters and the suburbs of Paris had suffered terribly
from the bombardment. I wandered for days over fragments of every mortal
thing that had once been whole, past dismantled batteries, along the
barren wastes of the Bois de Boulogne, and through avenues of wrecked
villas. Costly furniture and works of art had been shattered to atoms by
the enemy's bombs. In one place I came across a Louis Quinze sofa and
chairs that had evidently been carried out for removal, and stood
waiting so placidly, that they seemed to invite you to sit down and
rest; and in one of the gardens there was a cottage piano, which
appeared none the worse for its adventures; two coffee-cups stood
unharmed upon it, showing that some two persons had taken their
demie-tasse by the side of that piano.

The most striking effects of shot and shell showed themselves on the
ornamental ironwork which had once enclosed those suburban villas. It
seemed as if they had vented their fiercest passions on those
beautifully designed gates and railings French art excels in producing.
One could not suppress a feeling of pity as one saw them writhing in
anguish and stretching out their weird iron arms as if in supplication.
Here they were unhinged and started from their sockets; there their
limbs, once so perfectly poised, were twisted into unsightly shapes, and
stood out amongst the wreckage in fantastic and uncanny figures.

I had wended my way one afternoon to the revolutionary quarter of
Belleville, and had got into conversation with a workman of more than
average intelligence. Not feeling at our ease within earshot of the
"Mouchards," as the growling, spying, myrmidons of the police are
termed, and not liking the looks of the _gensdarmes a cheval_ with their
revolvers at half-cock, we had adjourned to one of the numerous
establishments kept by the _Marchand de Vins, Traiteur_, which take the
place of our public-houses. There my workman became confidential and
declared himself a Communist to the backbone. He scorned the idea that
the German was his enemy.

"If I'm to fight at all," he said, "let me find an enemy for myself. Let
me shoot the _richard en face_, the capitalist who has been exploiting
me and mine. We'll make him and the like