But what of provisions? The twenty-fifth night of the siege—a dark, wet night—the police fancied they discerned mysterious objects flying far over their heads on to the roof of Fort Chabrol. Much speculation, infinite straining of eyes and stretching of ears, and suddenly a paper parcel, falling from above, struck a Municipal Guard. Shock of the Guard. The cry: “It is a bomb!” But it was only a ham—a fine, excellent ham. And a few minutes later the Guards and police were searching the house from which it had been thrown and examining numbers of other paper parcels (carefully tied up) that contained joints of meat, “groceries,” sugared cakes, fruit and fresh salads; all of which luxuries were obviously intended for the rebels over the way. But where were Guérin’s friends and accomplices? Not a soul in the house; so said a policeman: “Try the roof.” And there, on the roof, more paper parcels ready to be thrown across to the Fort; and hiding behind the chimney-pots, four or five men.
“Arrest them,” cried an officer. And then, amidst the chimney-pots, much dodging and slipping and catching as in the games of “hide-and-seek” and “touch wood”; whilst over the way on _his_ roof, Jules Guérin raced about amidst _his_ chimney-pots, swinging a lantern and furiously shouting: “Assassins. Assassins.” Thus, no sleep for the few remaining householders that night. When his friends had been removed from the roof, and the police reappeared in the street with their captives and laden with parcels, Jules Guérin and his assistants discharged revolvers at the heavy, dark clouds; and, next morning, hurled fenders, fire-irons and a bedstead into the street. No one was struck: the prisoners were too excited to take aim.
Guérin’s harangues were still bloodthirsty, but it was noticed that he looked pale and drawn when he appeared at the windows, as though suffering from want of nourishment and exercise.... Now he was more subdued as he took air amidst the chimney-pots; and he would sit up on the roof in the moonlight, with a gun across his knees, for a whole hour without moving. How the air reeked with disinfectants, and how sombre was the Fort! Apparently oil and candles were scarce, for only a single candle was used at a time. One saw its dim light passing from room to room—now on the first floor, then on the second, the third; then there was darkness. Upon two occasions Guérin spent the entire night on the roof. A dishevelled shivering object he was at daybreak, with his coat-collar turned up and the sombrero dragged down over his ears. Nor did his young assistants with the bull-dog faces fare better. Their cheers became faint: and they themselves were to be discerned leaning moodily against the chimney-pots or yawning with all their mouths behind the windows. Moreover, it was suspected by the police that there was illness in the Fort. One night a candle burned steadily in the same room. Not a soul on the roof, silence in the citadel. At daybreak Jules Guérin hoisted a black flag; one of the young prisoners with the bull-dog face was dying. In answer to Jules Guérin’s call, an officer stepped forward, and parleying ensued. An ambulance was brought up. When the solid oak door of Fort Chabrol opened and Jules Guérin appeared with the dying man in his arms, the policemen and Guards stood gravely at salute. Away, slowly, went the ambulance. And no sooner had it vanished than Jules Guérin—livid and trembling—banged to and bolted the door: rushed back to his window, and there, pointing dramatically to the black flag, hoarsely shouted: “Assassins. Assassins. Assassins.”