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Show CHASING TIIK COMMUNISTS A DASTARDLY DIUKDElt, The Versailles troops, collected about the foot of the Hue St. Honore, were enjoying the fine game of Communist hunting. The Parisians of civil life are caitiffs to the last drop of their thin, sour, white blood. But yesterday 1 they had cried, "Vive la Commune !" and submitted to be governed by this ' said Commune, To-day they rubbed their hands with livid, currish joy to have it in their power to denounce a Communist and reveal his hiding-place. Very cnger at this work aro the dear creatures of women. They know the , rat-holes into which the poor devils . have got, and they guide to ihem with a fiendish glee which is a phase of the i many-tided sex. Voiia ! tho braves of France returned to a triumph, after a shameful captivity! They have found him, the miserable! Ye.", they , drag him out from one of the purlieus which Haussman had not time to sweep away, and a guard of fix of them hem him round as they march him into the Rue St- Ilonore. A tall, , pale, hat less man, with something Dot ignoble in his carriage. His lower hp is trembling, but his brow is firm, and tho eye of him has some pride and defiance in it. They yell ; the crowd "shoot him ; shoot him 1" the demon-women most clamorous, ofoour&e. An aim goes into the air; there arc on it the stripes of a non commissioned officer; and there is a stick in the fist. The stick falls on the head of a pale man in black. Ha ! the infection has caught; men club thcr rifles, and bring them down on that bead, or clash ihem into splinters in their lust for murder. He is down; he is up again; he is down again; the thuds of the gun-stocks on him sounding sound-ing just as the sound when a man beats a cushion with a stick. A certain British impulse, stronger than consideration for self, prompts me to run forward. But it is u-eless. They are firing into the placid carcass now, thioiiging about it like blow flies on a piece of meat. His brains spun on my boot and plash into the gutter, whither the carrion is bodily chucked, presently to be trodden on and rolled by the feet of multitudes and wheels of L'Un-carriages. W omanhood. then, is not quite dead in that band of Bedlamites Bedlam-ites who had clamored " Shoot him." Here is one in hysterics; another, with wan, scared lace, draws out of the press an embryo Bedlamite, her offspring, and, let us hope, goes home. But surely all manhood is dead in the soldiery sol-diery of France to do a deed like this. An officer one with a bull throat and the eyes of Algiers stood by and looked look-ed on at the sport, sucking a cigar meanwhile. Paris Correspondence of , the London Xcics, May -3. |