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CHAPTER XVI.
THE MASSACRE
Suddenly a window was opened.
Upon Hell.
Dante, had he leaned over the summit of the shadow, would have been able
to see the eighth circle of his poem; the funereal Boulevard Montmartre.
Paris, a prey to Bonaparte; a monstrous spectacle. The gloomy armed men
massed together on this boulevard felt an appalling spirit enter into
them; they ceased to be themselves, and became demons.
There was no longer a single French soldier, but a host of indefinable
phantoms, carrying out a horrible task, as though in the glimmering
light of a vision.
There was no longer a flag, there was no longer law, there was no longer
humanity, there was no longer a country, there was no longer France;
they began to assassinate.
The Schinderhannes division, the brigades of Mandrin, Cartouche,
Poulailler, Trestaillon, and Tropmann appeared in the gloom, shooting
down and massacring.
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