liver her by the means of the butt-ends of their muskets.
Another, perfectly distracted, was turning the corner of a street. She
was carrying a child. Two soldiers aimed at her. One said, "At the
woman!" And he brought down the woman. The child rolled on the pavement.
The other soldier said, "At the child!" And he killed the child.

A man of high scientific repute, Dr. Germain See, declares that in one
house alone, the establishment of the Jouvence Baths, there were at six
o'clock, beneath a shed in the courtyard, about eighty wounded, nearly
all of whom (seventy, at least) were old men, women, and children. Dr.
See was the first to attend to them.

In the Rue Mandar, there was, stated an eye-witness, "a rosary of
corpses," reaching as far as the Rue Neuve Saint Eustache. Before the
house of Odier twenty-six corpses. Thirty before the hotel Montmorency.
Fifty-two before the Varietes, of whom eleven were women. In the Rue
Grange-Bateliere there were three naked corpses. No. 19, Faubourg
Montmartre, was full of dead and wounded.

A woman, flying and maddened, with dishevelled hair and her arms raised
aloft, ran along the Rue Poissonniere, crying, "They kill! they kill!
they kill! they kill! they kill!"

The soldiers wagered. "Bet you I bring down that fellow there." In this
manner Count Poninsky was killed whilst going into his own house, 52,
Rue de la Paix.

I was anxious to know what I ought to do. Certain treasons, in order to
be proved, need to be investigated. I went to the field of murder.

In such mental agony as this, from very excess of feeling one no longer
thinks, or if one thinks, it is distractedly. One only longs for some
end or other. The death of others instills in you so much horror that
your own death becomes an object of desire; that is to say, if by dying,
you would be in some degree useful! One calls to mind deaths which have
put an end to angers and to revolts. One only retains this ambition, to
be a useful corpse.

I walked along terribly thoughtful.

I went towards the boulevards; I saw there a furnace; I heard there a
thunderstorm.

I saw Jules Simon coming up to me, who during these disastrous days
bravely risked a precious life. He stopped me. "Where are you going?" he
asked me. "You will be killed. What do you want?" "That very thing,"
said I.

We shook hands.

I continued to go on.

I reached the boulevard; the scene was indescribable. I witnessed this
crime, this butchery, thi