There was a brave, stout woman, mistress of a coal and wood yard, named Madame Saint-Chely.  She was a native of Auvergne, whence all porters and water-carriers in Paris come.  With her sleeves tucked up, and her hair flying, she kept carrying out sack after sack of cartridges, undaunted, though her clothes caught fire.  Bending beneath the weight upon her back, she emptied them into the basin of the fountain that stands in the middle of the Place, then rushed back for more, while the flames poured from the windows of the upper story.  Her activity and cheerfulness animated every one.

There was also a barber named Labois, who distinguished himself by his courage and activity in rolling barrels of powder out of the cellar of the prefecture, and plunging them into the Seine.

When several tons of powder and twenty millions of cartridges had been carried out, danger from that source was over.  The next thing was to fight the flames.  Then they discovered that all the fire-engines had been sent away.  Every basin, pitcher, bucket, or saucepan on the island was put into requisition.  Surrounded by the Seine, they had plenty of water.  All worked with a will.  At last an engine came, sent in to their help from Rambouillet.

One part of the Prefecture, whose burning caused innumerable sparks, was the depot for lost property.  It contained, among other things twenty thousand umbrellas.

It was above all things desirable to remove the straw bedding of the prisoners, stored by day in one large room, and while those busy with powder and cartridges worked below, Pierre Braquond, the turnkey, took this task upon himself, assisted by some of his late prisoners.

The difficulty of escaping from the island was great, for the insurgents would fire on fugitives from the right bank of the river, the Versailles troops from the left.  A warder, at the risk of his life, crept to the water’s edge opposite to the Versaillais, and waved a white handkerchief.  As soon as he was seen, the troops ceased firing.  Every moment it was expected that the roof of the prison would fall in, when suddenly the reservoir on the top of the building gave way, and the flames were checked by a rush of water.  Braquond had said to Judge Bonjean a few days before he was sent from the Prefecture to Mazas, “I can stay here no longer.  I am going to escape to Versailles.”  M. Bonjean replied:  “As a magistrate I command you to remain; as a prisoner I implore you.  What would become of those under your care if the friends of the Commune were set over them?”

The Ministry of Marine (that is, the Navy Department) is situated in the Rue Saint-Florentin, near the Rue Royale and the Place de la Concorde,—­the most beautiful part of the city.  The officer who held it for the Commune was Colonel Brunei, an excellent middle-aged man, far too good for his associations.  There was no stain of any kind on his past life, but he had been disappointed when peace was made with the Germans, and had joined the Commune in a moment of patriotic enthusiasm.  Once in its service, there was no way to escape.