Pfaffendorf, a farm-house near
the north side of the city, had previously been set on fire, when the
Russian jaegers had penetrated thither through the Rosenthal, and was
consumed to the very walls. As this place had been converted into an
hospital, many poor fellows there fell a sacrifice to the flames.
You may easily conceive the sensations of the inhabitants of the upper
town when we beheld the black clouds of smoke rising from the lower,
while the incessant fire of the artillery rendered it impossible for us
to repair thither, to obtain information or to afford assistance. Here,
as every where else, the fears of the inhabitants were wound up to the
highest pitch. A cry was raised that several streets were already in
flames, and every one now hastened to his own house, that he might be at
hand in case a similar accident should happen there. It became more and
more dangerous to remain in the upper stories, which the inhabitants
accordingly quitted, and betook themselves to the kitchens and cellars.
If such were the terrors of the inmates, old and young, the fears and
anxiety of the French who chanced to be in the houses surpassed all
description. Many of them were seen weeping like children, and starting
convulsively at every report of the cannon. In the midst of this hideous
uproar I made another attempt to learn what was passing in the suburbs.
In the streets I found inexpressible confusion, people running in all
directions, officers driving their men to the gates.
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