The whole fire from housetops and windows was directed at them; but fast as they fell, others took their places, and the roll of the artillery never slackened nor ceased for an instant. The shot rattled like hail on the walls of the houses, or crashed through them with clattering destruction. Wild and demoniac yells, death-shouts, and cries of triumph mingled with the terrible uproar. Above all, however, roared the dread artillery, in one unbroken thunder. At last the column seemed to waver--the leading files fell back--a moment's hesitation ensued--a fresh discharge of grape, at less than pistol range, tore through them; and now the word was given to retire. Shouts and cries poured from the housetops and parapets. Were they of encouragement or derision?--who can tell? The street now presented the horrid spectacle of indiscriminate carnage; the guns were wheeled forward as the troops retired, cavalry charging on the broken masses while the guns were reloading; the cavalcade of death rode past at a walk, the gunners firing steadily on, till the word was given to cease. The smoke cleared lazily away at last, and now no living thing was seen to stir in front: the long line of the Rue St. Honoré presented nothing but the bodies of the dead. The housetops and parapets, too, were speedily deserted; for the houses were now forced by the infantry of the line, who at every moment appeared at the windows and waved their shakos in token of victory. As I looked, a crash recalled my attention behind me; and now the door of the bureau was in ruins, and four soldiers, with their bayonets at the charge, dashed forward. On seeing me alone and unarmed, they only laughed, and passed on to the upper story. “Are you in charge here?” asked a young corporal of me. “I belong to the bureau,” said I, in reply. “Place your books and papers under lock and key, then,” said he, “and make your way to headquarters.” “Where?” “At the Tuileries. There goes the Commander-in-Chief,” added he, mechanically saluting, as a staff of officers rode by beneath. “Who is that pale man in front, with the long hair?” asked I. “General Bonaparte,” was the answer; “and few can handle artillery like him.” CHAPTER XXVII. AN EPISODE OF MY LIFE