tbreak on
the part of the populace. On March 18 the Commune was proclaimed and
Citoyen Dardelle, an old African hunter, was appointed military governor
of the Tuileries. Whatever this individual's military qualifications may
have been, he delivered himself to the enjoyment of a high and dissolute
life in his luxurious apartments in the palace; a fact which was
speedily made note of by the still restless populace.

The Citoyen Rousselle, a member of the Communal Government, had the idea
of organizing a series of popular concerts in the gardens of the
Tuileries for the profit of the wounded in the late friction.

Hung on the walls, at the entrance of each apartment was a placard which
read: "Fellow men, the gold with which these walls were built was earned
by your sweat." "To-day you are coming to your own." "Remain faithful to
your trust and see to it that the tyrants enter never more."

During one of these public concerts a poem of Hegesippe Moreau was read
which terminated as follows, and set the populace aflame.

* * *
"Et moi j'applaudirai; ma jeuneusse engourdie
Se rechauffera a ce grand incendie."

He referred to the burning of the former abode of emperors and kings as
a sort of sacrifice to the common good. The public had held itself in
hand very well up to this moment, but applauded the verses vociferously.
The last of the concerts was held on May 21, the same day as the Army of
Versailles entered Paris. Night came, and with it the raging, red flames
springing skywards from the roof of the Tuileries.

In a few moments the flames had enveloped the entire building. All the
forces that it was possible to gather had been ordered upon the scene,
but they were unable to save the old palace, and by one o'clock in the
morning it was but a mass of smoking ruins. The Communards had done
their work well. Before leaving its precincts they had sprinkled coal
oil over every square metre of carpet, window-hangings and tapestries,
and the slow-match was not long in passing the fire to its inflammable
timber. The library of the Louvre was destroyed, but the museums,
galleries and their famous collections fortunately escaped.

For a dozen years the lamentable ruins of the old palace of the
Tuileries reared their singed walls, a witness and a reproach to the
tempestuosity of a people. Finally, in 1882, Monsieur Achille Picard
undertook their removal for thirty-three thousand francs, and within a