Chapter X: Part 10

I tried to make him talk of other things, to divert him from his dark thoughts. We played some duets of Bach, and he accompanied me in some of his songs. I sang them to please him, though my heart was not "attuned to music," as the poets say.

_March 25, 1871._

I have not had the time to write for some days, but I am sure you will forgive me. Mrs. Moulton and I have been going to the ambulances every day this week.

There are many of these temporary hospitals established all over Paris, supplied with army surgeons and nurses.

Mrs. Moulton, like many other ladies, had volunteered her services during the war, and had interested herself in this worthy cause; and as she is about to leave for Dinard one of these days, she wanted me to take up her work in the hospital of the Boulevard la Tour-Maubourg. She knows all the directors and nurses and introduced me to them.

The director asked me if I would like to help in the _section des étrangers_. I replied that I would do anything they wished, hoping inwardly that I might develop a talent for nursing, which, until now, had lain dormant.

It was not with a light heart I entered the ward to which I was aligned, and saw the long rows of beds filled with sick and wounded.

My first patient was a very young German (he did not look more than twenty). He had been shot through the eyes, and was so bandaged that I could hardly see anything but his mouth. Poor little fellow! He was very blond, with a nicely shaped head and a fine, delicate mouth.

His lips trembled when I laid my hand on his white and thin hand, lying listlessly on the coverlid. I asked him if I could do anything for him.

He answered me by asking if I could speak German. On my saying that I could, he said he would like to have me write to his mother.

I asked the director if it was allowed for me to communicate with his family. He answered that there would be no objection if the contents of the letter were understood by me.

Therefore, armed with pencil and paper, I returned to my invalid's bedside, who, on hearing me, whispered: "I thought you had gone and would not come back."

"You don't think I would be so unkind as that?" I answered.

I felt that we were already friends. I sat down, saying that I was ready to write if he would dictate.

His lips moved; but I could not hear, and was obliged to put my ear quite close to his poor bandaged face to hear the words, _Meine liebe Mutter_. He went on dictating, and I writing as well as I could, until there came a pause. I waited, and then said, "Und?" He stammered something which I made out to be, "It hurts me to cry," whereupon I cried, the tears rolling fast down my cheeks. Fortunately he did not see me!

This is my first trial, and I have already broken down!

I told him I would finish the letter and send it to his mother, "Frau Wanda Schultz, Biebrich am Rhein," which I did, adding a little postscript that I was looking after her son, and would take the best care of him. I hope she got the letter.

The doctor advised the patient to sleep, so I left him and went to another bed, which they indicated.

This was an American, a newspaper reporter from Camden, New Jersey. He had joined Faidherbe's army in February, and had been wounded in the leg. He was glad to talk English. "They do things mighty well over here", said he; "but I guess I'll have to have my leg cut off, all the same."

When I put the question to him, "What can I do for you?" he replied, "If you have any papers or illustrated news or pictures, I should like to see them." I said I would bring some to-morrow.

He was very cheerful and very pleasant to talk with.

On reaching the Rue de Courcelles we found Mr. Washburn.

He was utterly disgusted with the Communards. He even became violent when he spoke of their treatment of Generals Lecomte and Clément Thomas. He rather took their defense during the first days of the Commune, saying they were acting in good faith; but now I think he has other ideas about them.

Auber also came at five o'clock; he gets more and more despondent, and is very depressed. He had heard that the Communards had commenced pillaging in the Quartier de l'Odéon, also that the Place Vendôme was being plundered.

To what are we coming?

The next day I found my little German soldier decidedly worse. He had received a letter from the _Mutter_, which he asked me to read to him. I tried my best to overcome the difficulties of the writing and spelling, and made many mistakes, causing the poor little fellow to smile. He corrected me every time very conscientiously.

I did feel so sorry for him; he seemed so gentle and never complained of his sufferings, which must have been intense. The nurse, feeling his pulse, announced an increase of fever, and thought he had better rest, When I said, in as cheerful a voice as I could assume; "Well, good-by for to-day," he said, "To-morrow you will come?" Alas! there was to be no to- morrow for him.

My other patient, Mr. Parker, appeared very comfortable, and immensely pleased to see that I had not forgotten to bring the newspapers and pictures. I also took a chess-board, thinking to amuse him. The doctor looked dismayed when he saw me carrying a chessboard under my arm. "Madame," he said, "I think that chess is too fatiguing for an invalid; perhaps something milder would be better. I have always understood," he smilingly added, "that chess is a game for people in the most robust health, and with all their mental faculties."

I felt utterly crushed. This was the way my attempts to divert the sick and the wounded were received! I thought how little I understood the character of hospital work. Mr. Parker, evidently feeling sorry for my discomfiture, told the doctor it would amuse him to play checkers if he would allow it. The doctor consented to this, and I sent Louis off to buy a box of checkers. Mr. Parker and I played two games, and he beat me each game, which put him in splendid spirits, and I think did him no harm.

Mrs. Moulton and I drove out to the Bois after the ambulance visit. I had not been there since last August. How changed it was! The broad Avenue de l'Impératrice, where the lovely Empress drove every day in her _calèche à la Daumont_, surrounded by the magnificent _Cent Gardes_, is now almost impossible to drive in. The trees are cut down, and the roads full of ditches and stones.

Rochefort, who was in power while the siege was in progress, suggested some medieval methods too childish for belief--to annihilate the whole German army if they should enter Paris. He had ordered pitfalls in the Avenue de l'Impératrice--holes about three feet deep--in which he intended the German cavalry to tumble headlong. He thought, probably, the army would come in the night and not see them. Rochefort had also built towers, as in the time of the Crusaders, from which hot oil and stones were to be poured on the enemy. Did you ever hear of anything so idiotic? He little dreamt that the German army would take possession of Paris, bivouac in the Champs-Élysées, and quietly march out again.

We visited the Pré Catalan, where last year fashionable society met every day to flirt and drink milk. That is, as you may imagine, minus cows. These had, like all the other animals, been eaten and digested long ago. Thick hides not being at a premium, the hippopotamus and rhinoceros had been kindly spared to posterity.

_March 29th._

To-day I went to the ambulances as usual. The doctor greeted me with his usual kindness; he said there was an invalid for whom I was needed, and conducted me to his bedside.

My new patient was a German officer about thirty-five years old. He said he came from Munich. I told him about Count Arco (also from Munich), whom he knew, and about Petit Val, in which he seemed interested. We talked music, and he became quite excited when he spoke of Wagner, to whom, according to him, no one could compare. I did not want to discuss this wide subject; I merely remarked that Mendelssohn and Weber had their good points, which he allowed, but replied that they were utterly out of fashion. I did not agree with him, and, to show that Weber was a genius, I hummed the prayer from "Der Freischütz."

There was a visible movement among the white-covered beds, and the nurses frowned, while the doctor came hurriedly toward me, holding up his finger warningly.

I really have no talent for nursing. It seems that everything I do is wrong.

The German officer said, when I went away, "I will convince you to-morrow, when you come, that Wagner is the greatest genius living." I answered that undoubtedly he would, and bade him good-by.

When I reached the carriage I found a small crowd collected around it, and I hurried to get in, and hardly had time to shut the door when Louis whipped the horse, and we were galloping away toward home. Once there, Louis told me that he would respectfully advise me not to go in the carriage with a coachman in livery again. Anything, he said, in the form of luxury or wealth excited the mob, and no one could tell what it might do when excited.

Therefore we decided to abolish the liveries for the future. When we reached home we found that we were one horse less, the Communards having taken it out of the stables without further ado than a mild protest from the frightened _concierge_. The Comité de Transport promised to return the horse when no longer needed.

_March 31st._

DEAR MAMA,--Mr. Moulton thought it better that I should leave Paris. But to leave Paris one must have a passport from the Prefect of Police. He consulted Mr. Washburn about it, who not only consented to give me a card of introduction to Raoul Rigault (whom he knew personally), but offered to send me to the prefecture in his own carriage.

This morning at eleven the carriage was at the door, and with it the promised card of introduction. I noticed that the coachman had no livery, nor did he wear the cockade of the Legation; neither was there any servant. I suppose Mr. Washburn thought it safer for us to drive through the streets without creating any unnecessary notice or running the risk of being insulted.

Mademoiselle W---- accompanied me, and with her the omnipresent bag filled with chocolates, bonbons, etc., for any unforeseen event.

On our way she discoursed on the manner one ought to treat _ces gens- là_. One should (she said) not _brusquer_ them, nor provoke them in any way, but smile kindly at them and _en générale_ be very polite.

I don't know how many times I had to pull out my _billet de circulation_ before we reached the prefecture.

It was a long time since I had been down the Rue de Rivoli, and I was disgusted when I saw the half-clad half-starved soldiers, in their dirty boots and down-trodden shoes, slouching about with their torn uniforms and carrying their rusty guns any which way.

At last we arrived, and we were about to descend from the carriage, when a ragamuffin of a Communist, shouldering his gun and looking all-important, sprang forward to prevent us; but on showing my "billet," he nodded his head, saying, "C'est bien."

At the mere sight of him Mademoiselle W---- said, "Don't you think, _chère Madame_, that it is better to return home?" I answered: "Nonsense! Now that we are here, let us go through with it."

A few steps farther an awkward soldier happened to drop his gun on the pavement. At the sound of this, poor Mademoiselle W---- almost sank on her knees with fright.

The small gate next to the large iron one was opened, and we entered the courtyard. This was filled with soldiers. A sentinel stood before the door of the large corridor which led to the Prefect's office. Inside this room stood a guard, better dressed and seemingly a person of more importance. On showing Mr. Washburn's card, I said to him that I had come here for the purpose of getting a passport, and would like to speak to Monsieur Rigault himself.

We went toward the door, which he opened, but on seeing Mademoiselle W---- he stopped us and asked: "Who is that lady? Has she a card also?"

We had never thought of this! I was obliged to say that she had not, but she had come to accompany me.

He said, rather bluntly, "If she has no card, I cannot allow her to enter."

Here was a pretty plight. I told him, in the suave manner which Mademoiselle W---- had recommended to me, that Mr. Washburn would have included this lady's name on my card had he foreseen that there would be any difficulty in allowing her to follow me as my companion.

"Madame, I have strict orders; I cannot disobey them."

I did not wish him to disobey them; but, nevertheless, I whispered to Mademoiselle W----, "Don't leave me, stay close by me," thinking the man would not, at the last moment, refuse to allow her to remain with me.

Alas! the door opened. I entered; the door closed behind me; I looked back and saw I was alone. No Mademoiselle in sight! My heart sank.

I was escorted from room to room, each door guarded by an uncouth soldier, and shut promptly as I passed.

I must have gone through at least seven rooms before I reached the sanctuary in which Monsieur Raoul Rigault held his _audience_.

This autocrat, whom the republicans (to their eternal shame be it said) had placed in power after the 4th of September, is (and was _then_) the most successful specimen of a scamp that the human race has ever produced. At this moment Rigault has more power than any one else in Paris.

When the guard opened the door he pointed to the table where Raoul Rigault was seated writing (seemingly very absorbed). He appeared to me to be a man of about thirty-five or forty years old, short, thick-set, with a full, round face, a bushy black beard, a sensuous mouth, and a cynical smile. He wore tortoise-shell eyeglasses; but these could not hide the wicked expression of his cunning eyes.

I looked about me and noticed that the room had very little furniture; there was only the table at which the Prefect sat and two or three plain chairs. Just such a chamber as Robespierre might have occupied during _his République_. There were two gendarmes standing behind Rigault's chair waiting for orders, and a man (of whom I did not take particular notice) leaning against the mantelpiece at the other end of the room.

I approached the table, waiting like a culprit for the all-powerful Rigault to look up and notice me.

But he did not; he continued to be occupied with what he was doing. So I ventured to break the ice by saying, "Monsieur, I have come to procure a passport, and here is Mr. Washburn's card (the American Minister) to tell you who I am."

He took the card without condescending to look at it, and went on writing.

Getting impatient at his impertinence, I ventured again to attract his attention, and I said, as politely as possible (and as Mademoiselle could have wished), "Will you not kindly give me this passport, as I wish to leave Paris as soon as possible?"

Thereupon he took up the card, and, affecting the "Marat" style, said, "Does the _citoyenne_ wish to leave Paris? _Pourquoi?_"

I answered that I was obliged to leave Paris for different reasons.

He replied, with what he thought a seductive smile, "I should think Paris would be a very attractive place for a pretty woman like yourself."

How could I make him understand that I had come for a passport and not for conversation?

At this moment I confess I began to feel dreadfully nervous, seeing the powerless situation in which I was placed, and I saw in imagination visions of prison-cells, handcuffs, and all the horrors which belong to revolutions. I heard the sonorous clock in the tower strike the hour, and realized that only minutes, not hours, had passed since I had been waiting in this dreadful place.

"Monsieur," I began once more, "I am rather in haste, and would thank you if you would give me my passport."

Upon which he took Mr. Washburn's so-much-looked-at card, scrutinized it, and then scrutinized me.

"Are you La Citoyenne Moulton?"

I answered, "Yes."

"American?"

I replied I was, and _in petto_--mighty glad I was to be so.

"Does the American Minister know you personally?"

"Yes, very well."

"Why do you wish to deprive us of your presence in Paris?"

I repeated that my affairs required my presence elsewhere.

I saw he was taking no steps toward making out my passport, and I became more agitated and unnerved and said, "If it is impossible for you, Monsieur, to give me the passport, I will inform Mr. Washburn of the fact, and he will no doubt come to you himself for it."

This seemed to arouse him, for he opened a drawer and took out a blank to be filled for a passport, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, as it he was bored to death.

Now followed the most hateful and trying _quart d'heure_ I ever passed in my life. I fancy Raoul Rigault had never been in the society of a lady (perhaps he had never seen one), and his innate coarseness seemed to make him gloat over the present situation, and as a true republican, whose motto is _Égalité, Fraternité, Liberté_, he flattered himself he was on an equality with me, therefore he could take any amount of liberty. He took advantage of the unavoidable questions that belong to the making out of a passport, and showed a diabolical pleasure in tormenting _la citoyenne_ who stood helplessly before him.

When it came to the description and the enumerating of my features, he was more obnoxious than I can express. Peering across the table to see whether my eyes were brown or black, or my hair black or brown, he never lost an opportunity to make a fawning remark before writing it down. He described my _teint_ as _pâle_; I felt pale, and think I must have looked very pale, for he said: "Vous êtes bien pâle, Madame. Voudriez-vous quelque chose à boire?" Possibly he may have meant to be kind; but I saw BORGIA written all over him. I refused his offer with effusion.

When he asked me my age, he said, _insinuatingly_, "Vous êtes bien jeune, Madame, pour circuler seule ainsi dans Paris."

I answered, "Je ne suis pas seule, Monsieur. Mon mari [I thought it best to tell this lie] m'attend dans la voiture de Monsieur Washburn et il doit être bien étonné de ma longue absence."

I considered this extremely diplomatic.

Turning to the man at the mantelpiece, he said, "Grousset, do you think we ought to allow the _citoyenne_ to leave Paris?"

Grousset (the man addressed) stepped forward and looked at Mr. Washburn's card, saying something in an undertone to Rigault, which caused him instantly to change his manner toward me (I don't know which was worse, his overbearing or his fawning manner).

"You must forgive me," he said, "if I linger over your visit here. We don't often have such luck, do we, Grousset?"

I thought I should faint!

Probably the man Grousset noticed my emotion, for he came to my rescue and said, politely, "Madame Moulton, j'ai eu l'honneur de vous voir à un bal à l'Hôtel de Ville l'année dernière."

I looked up with surprise. He was a very handsome fellow, and I remembered quite well having seen him somewhere; but did not remember where. I was happy indeed to find any one who knew me and could vouch for me, and told him so. He smiled. "I venture to present myself to you, Madame. I am Pascal Grousset. Can I be of any service to you?"

"Indeed you can," I answered, eagerly. "Please tell Monsieur Rigault to give me my passport; it seems to have been a colossal undertaking to get it." I preferred the _Pascal_ G. to the _Rascal_ R.

Grousset and Rigault had a little conversation together, and presto! my longed-for passport lay before me to sign. No Elsa ever welcomed her Lohengrin coming out of the clouds as I did my Lohengrin coming from the mantelpiece.

I signed my name quickly enough; Rigault put the official seal on it, and, rising from his chair, politely handed it to me.

Before taking my leave of the now over-polite Prefect, I asked him how much there was to pay.

He courteously replied, "Rien, absolument rien," and added he was glad to be of any service to me; and if there was anything more he could do, I had only to command.

I did not say that I thought he had done enough for one day, but I bowed him good-by and turned to go out.

Mr. Pascal Grousset offered me his arm, begging to take me to my carriage. The gendarmes threw open doors, and we retraced our steps through all the different rooms until we reached the one where I had left Mademoiselle W----, whom I expected to find waiting for me in agonizing anxiety.

But what did I see?

Mademoiselle sound asleep on the bench, bag, smile, and all, gazed at and guarded by the dreaded soldiers.

"I am afraid," said Pascal Grousset, "that you have been greatly annoyed this morning. Your interview with the Prefect must have been most painful to you!"

"I confess," I said, "it has never been my fate to have been placed in just such a situation, and I thank you, _de tout mon coeur_, for your assistance. You certainly saved my life, for I doubt if I could have lived another moment in that room."

"Perhaps more than your life, Madame; more than you imagine, at any rate."

As he put us in the carriage, he looked puzzled when he saw _le mari_ I had said was waiting for me; but a smile of comprehension swept over his face as he met my guilty glance. He apparently understood my reasons.

On reaching home, tired, exhausted, and oh! so hungry, we found Mr. Washburn. He and Mr. Moulton had been very anxious about me, picturing to themselves all sorts of horrors, and when I told them what really had happened they felt that their anxieties had not been far from the truth. Mr. Washburn laughed at the subterfuges I had used and the lie I had told. They examined my passport as a great curiosity, and noticed it had _Valable pour un an_.

Mr. Washburn said, "Evidently they intend this sort of thing to go on forever."

_23d of April._

Mrs. Moulton has decided to leave for Dinard, and starts the day after to- morrow.

We have been assured that the train would make connections as far at least as Rennes; beyond that no one could tell whether they went regularly or not.

Mrs. Moulton had procured a red _billet de circulation_ with a date, a white one without a date, Mr. Washburn's card, and different passes. She was certainly well prepared for any emergency. As there was only one day train, she was obliged to take that (it left al seven o'clock A.M.).

A desire to see some of her friends before her departure spurred Mrs. Moulton to invite them to dinner. Our friends are now so few and far between that it is not difficult to know whom to choose or where to find them.

The result was a miscellaneous company, as you will see: Mr. Washburn, Auber, Massenet, Beaumont, and Delsarte. Our family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Moulton, Henry, Mademoiselle Wissembourg, and myself.

Mrs. Moulton asked Henry to bring with him some green peas from Petit Val to eke out the chef's meager menu.

With the aid of a friendly officer, Henry managed to pick a "whole bushel" (he always exaggerates), which, with his toilet articles, completely filled his large _sac de voyage_. Besides this, he had a portmanteau with his evening attire, and a package which Count Arco wished to send to Paris.

Count Arco ordered out the "ancient and honorable relic" of our landau (the same I had used on the famous 18th of March) and the artillery horses, with their heavy dragoons, in order to deposit Henry and his bags at the pontoon bridge, where a man was found to take them as far as the station.

To divert himself while tramping along with his _sac de voyage_, Henry shelled the peas, casting the pods behind him, after the manner of Tom Thumb, never dreaming that the peas thus left to chum familiarly with his toilet things might suffer from the contact and get a new flavor. He was surprised to see how the "bushel" had diminished in volume since it started.

Mrs. Moulton had promised to send the carriage to meet _l'envoi extraordinaire_; but Henry, finding none, started to walk toward home, followed by a porter carrying his extra baggage.

What was Henry's astonishment at seeing Louis drive out of the Hôtel de Ville with two strange men in the coupé. Henry hailed Louis, who, though scared out of his wits, pulled up obediently, disregarding the angry voices from inside. Henry opened the door and addressed the strangers politely, "Messieurs, this is my carriage; I beg you to alight."

"Par exemple!" cried the two, in chorus. "Who are you?"

"I happen to be the proprietor of the carriage," replied Henry, assuming an important air, "and if you decline to leave it I shall call the Sergent de Ville." Then turning to the porter, he told him to put the bags in the coupé, which he did.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the two men. "_Faites ça, mon bon!_ that would be amusing. Do you know who we are?"

Henry did not, and said he was not particularly anxious to know.

"This is Monsieur Félix Pyat, and I am his secretary. Here is a _bon_ for your carriage," handing Henry the card.

"Well," said Henry, pulling out his card, "here is my card, here are my passes, and here [pointing to Louis] is my coachman!"

Félix Pyat said, "How do we know that this is your carriage?"

Henry acknowledged that at the moment he looked so little like the owner of anything except the bag, in which the peas were rattling like bullets, that he forgave the doubt.

Louis was called from the box and the question was put to him. In ordinary moments Louis would have mumbled and stuttered hopelessly; but he seemed to have been given overwhelming strength on this occasion, and surprised Henry by confirming his words with an unction worthy of the great Solomon himself. He waved his whip aloft, pointed to Henry, and putting his hand on his heart (which I am sure was going at a tremendous pace) said, "I swear that this is my master!"

No one but a Communard could have doubted him; but Félix Pyat no more believed Louis's oath than he did Henry's documents.

"_Bien_," said Pyat; "if it is true that you live in the Rue de Courcelles, we will leave you there and continue on our way."

Now followed the most spirited altercation, all talking at once, Henry trying to get in the coupé, and the others refusing to get out.

"À la maison!" shouted Henry.

"À la Place Beauvais!" shouted the Communards. They continued giving these contradictory orders to poor, bewildered Louis until a crowd had collected, and they thought it better to stop quarreling. Henry entered the carriage, meekly taking his seat on the _strapontin_ opposite the intruders, and thinking of the peas, which ought to have been in the pot by this time, assented to be left at home, and ordered Louis to drive the triumphant Communards to the Ministry of the Interior, Place Beauvais.

It would be difficult for one who did not know Louis to guess what his state of mind must have been. He was not of the kind they make heroes of; he was good, kind, and timid, though he was an _ancien Zouave_ and had fought in several battles (so he said). I always doubted these tales, and I still think Louis's loose, bulging trousers and the tassel of his red cap were only seen from behind.

It was as good as a play to hear Louis's tragic account of yesterday, and it made your hair stand on end when he recounted how he had been stopped in the Rue de Castiglione, how two fiery Communards had entered the coupé and ordered him to drive to the Hôtel de Ville, where Félix Pyat had mounted the carriage. What must his account have been in the kitchen?

However, the principal thing was that the harassed peas were safe in the kitchen and in time to be cooked and figure on the menu as _légumes_ (_les petits pois_).

Our guests' faces beamed with satisfaction at the idea of these _primeurs_, and evidently anticipated great joy in eating them; but after they had tasted them they laid down their forks and ... meditated! The servant removed the plates with their _primeurs_, wondering how such wanton capriciousness could exist in this _primeur_-less Paris. Only Mr. Moulton ate them to the last pea. We--the initiated--knew where the peculiar taste of soap, tooth-wash, perfume, etc., came from! The peas descended to the kitchen, and ascended again untouched to the hothouse, where they finished their wild and varied career. If they could have spoken, what tales they could have told! They had displaced the German Army, they had aided and abetted the cause of the Commune, and they had cost their bringer untold sums in _pourboires_, in order to furnish a few forkfuls for Mr. Moulton and a gala supper for the hens.

We had an excellent dinner: a _potage printanier_ (from cans), canned lobster, corned beef (canned), and some chickens who had known many sad months in the conservatory. An ice concocted from different things, and named on the menu _glace aux fruits_, completed this _festin de Balthazar_.

Mr. Moulton was obliged to don the obnoxious dress-coat, laid away during the siege in camphor, and smelling greatly of the same. He held in his hand _La Gazette Officielle_. The same shudder ran through us all. It was to be read to us after dinner! Coffee was served in the ballroom, which was dimly lighted.

Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman's eyes to read the fine print of the _Gazette_? Alas! no. Mr Moulton's eyes were not the kind that recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardly had we finished our coffee than out came the _Gazette_. We all listened, apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction; Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself to slumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years.

Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmured to himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, his profound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the art of enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what his graceful language could become _del bocca Americana_!

Delsarte's idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers of the workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large about the hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating from the same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; a fancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if he had a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on his _calotte_, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolution of 1848.

Massenet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with his editor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. After the _Gazette_ we awoke to life, and Massenet played some of the "Poème de Souvenir," which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). What a genius he is! Massenet always calls Auber _le Maître_, and Auber calls him _le cher enfant_.

Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers, and while he was at one piano Massenet put himself at the other (we have two in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wished they could have gone on forever.

Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, we could have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris--in the hands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed, Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of.

Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing "Il pleut, il pleut, Bergère," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chanté tout l'été," and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of the fable, "Eh bien, dansez maintenant," he gave such a tragic shake to his head that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hung limply over his bosom.

I sang the "Caro Nome" of "Rigoletto," with Massenet's accompaniment. Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me on the expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into my voice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls.

He now felt he had not lived in vain.

It being almost midnight, our guests took their departure.

There were only two carriages before the door, Mr. Washburn's and Auber's. Mr. Washburn took charge of the now very sleepy Delsarte, who declaimed a sepulchral _bonsoir_ and disappeared, his redingote waving in the air.

The _maître_ took the _cher enfant_, or rather the _cher enfant_ led the _maître_ out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The _Gazette Officielle_ had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubt being perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coat and pumps replaced by _robe de chambre_ and slippers. Henry said the next morning he had had a bad night;... he had dreamt that the whole German army was waiting outside of Paris, shelling the town with peas.

_April 1, 1871._

Beaumont wished to accompany us to the ambulance to-day, thinking that he might get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his album and pencils with him, he did not accomplish much.

We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawing of him. The officer said in a low tone to me, "Is that the famous artist Beaumont?"

I replied that it was.

"I am so glad to have an opportunity to see him, as I have heard so much of him, and have seen a great many of his pictures in Germany."

This I repeated to Beaumont, and it seemed to please him very much.

When we left, Beaumont said to him, showing him the sketch, "Would you like this?"

The officer answered in the most perfect French, "I shall always keep it as a precious souvenir"; and added, "May I not have a sketch of my nurse?" (meaning me).

Beaumont thought that it was rather presuming on the part of the officer to ask for it, and seemed annoyed. However, he made a hasty drawing and gave it to him, saying in his blunt way, "I hope this will please you." The officer thanked him profusely, and we left. Turning to me he said: "I have not profited much by this visit. I have given, but not taken anything away."

"But the experience," I ventured to say.

"Oh yes, the experience; but that I did not need."

In the evening we had one of our drowsy games of whist, made up of Countess B----, our neighbor opposite, brought across the street in her sedan-chair (she never walks), Mr. Moulton, myself, and Beaumont making the sleepy fourth. Neither of our guests speaks English with anything like facility, but they make frantic efforts to carry on the game in English, as Mr. Moulton has never learned the game in French and only uses English terms.

Mr. Moulton always plays with Countess B----, and I always play with Beaumont; we never change partners.

This is the kind of game we play:

It takes Beaumont a very long time to arrange his cards, which he does in a unique way, being goaded on by Mr. Moulton's impatient "Well!" He picks out all the cards of one suit and he lays them downward on the table in a pile; then he gathers them up and puts them between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. With the next suit he does likewise, placing them between the second and third fingers, and so on, until the grand _finale,_ when the fingers loosen and the cards amalgamate. During this process his cards fall every few minutes on the floor, occasioning much delay, as they have all to be arranged again.

It is my deal; I turn up a heart. The Countess is on my left. We wait with impatience for her to play, but she seems only to be contemplating her cards.

"Well!" says Mr. Moulton, impatiently.

We all say in unison, "Your play, Countess!"

The Countess: "Oh, what dreadful cards! I can never play. Oh," with a sigh, "how dreadful!"

We are all very sorry for her. She has evidently wretched cards.

Long pause. "Your turn, Countess!" we all cry.

"What are trumps?" she asks.

We show her the trump card on the table and say together, "Hearts."

Another long pause.

She arranges her cards deliberately and then shuts them up like a fan.

"Your play, partner," says Mr. Moulton, tired out with waiting.

With a dismal wail, and looking about for sympathy, she plays the ace of clubs.

Mr. Moulton gathers up the trick.

She has no idea that she has taken anything, but is quietly adjusting her cards again.

"Your turn, Countess!"

"What, my turn again?" She expresses the greatest surprise.

She: "What dreadful cards! Indeed, I cannot play."

Poor thing! That was probably her only good card, and we expected her next would be the two of spades. But no. She pulls out, with the air of a martyr, the ace of spades.

Mr. Moulton: "Well! that's not so bad."

Great astonishment on her part. She can't believe that she has actually taken a trick. She had hoped some one else would have played.

A long, fidgety silence follows.

All: "Your play, Countess!" She plays the queen of hearts.

This has no success, as I take it with my king.

Mr. Moulton: "Why did you play trumps?"

She: "Oh! was that trumps? I must take it back. Pray, let me take it back."

We all recover our cards. (My partner takes this occasion to drop some of his on the floor. He picks them up and arranges them again in order.)

"Your turn, Countess!" we cry, exhausted.

She: "What, again! Why does some one else not play?"

Then out comes the ace of diamonds.

Some one said, "You have all the aces."

She: "Oh! not all; I have not the ace of hearts."

Her partner, aghast, begs her not to tell us what her other cards are, and so the game proceeds to the bitter end.

There were other moments funny beyond words especially when Mr. Beaumont's English fails to cope with the situation and he will try to discuss the points where the Countess has failed. He says, "Did you not see he put his king on your spade ace-spot?" and, "Madame, you played the third of spades." And when we count honors, Beaumont will cover the table with his great elbows and enumerate his: "I had the ass, the knight, and the dame."

I heard a suppressed chuckle from my father-in-law, and seemed to see a vision of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza pass before me.

_24th of April._

DEAR MAMA,--Auber sent a note early this morning by his coachman to ask me to lunch with him at ten-thirty o'clock (of course accompanied by Mademoiselle, my aunt, as he calls her). The coachman says that his master is not feeling well and longs to see a friend.

I am proud to be the friend he longs to see, and was only too happy to accept. Mademoiselle W---- was equally happy, ready, as always, for any excursion where a good repast was in view, and of that we were sure, as Auber's chef is renowned, and is so clever that, though the market is limited, he can make something delicious out of nothing.

Louis appeared in a short jacket and a straw hat, looking rather waggish and very embarrassed to present himself in such a costume.

Driving through the Boulevard Clichy and endless out-of-the-way streets, we finally reached Auber's hotel, which is in the Rue St. Georges.

Louis was glad to find safety under the _porte-cochère_, and to see his bosom companion, Auber's butler, into whose arms he fell with joy.

Auber came to the door to welcome us, seeming most grateful that we had come, and led us into the salon. There is only one way to get into the salon, and that is either through the dining-room or the bedroom; we went through the bedroom, as the other was decked for the feast.

I have never seen Auber look so wretched and sad as he did to-day; I could hardly believe it was the same Auber I have always seen so gay and full of life and spirits.

I brought a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley, which Louis had gathered in the all-producing hothouse.

"Merci, merci," he said. "Les fleurs! C'est la vie parfumée." Waiting for the breakfast to be served, he showed us about in his apartment. In the salon, rather primly furnished, stood the grand piano. The bookshelves contained Cherubini's (his master) and his own operas, and his beloved Bach. A table in the middle of the room, covered with photographs and engravings, completed son _salon de garçon_.

The bedroom was also very primitive: his wooden bed, with its traditional covering of _bourre_; a chiffonier containing his curios, royal presents, and costly souvenirs; his writing-table; and his old piano, born in 1792, on which he composed all his operas.

The piano certainly looked very old; its keys were yellow as amber, and Auber touched them with tenderness, his thin, nervous fingers, with their well-kept nails, rattling on them like dice in a box.

He said: "Le piano est presqu'aussi vieux que moi. Que de tracas nous avons eu ensemble!"

Breakfast was announced, and we three took our places at the beautifully arranged table. I wondered where the butler had found flowers and fruit and _écrevisses_. Mademoiselle and I ate with an astounding appetite; but Auber, who had not eaten a _déjeuner_ for thirty years, contented himself with talking.

And talk he did, like a person hungry and thirsty to talk. He told us about Scribe, for whom he had an unlimited admiration. "I wish you had known him," he said; "he was the greatest librettist who ever existed. I only had to put the words on the piano, put on my hat, and go out. When I came back the music was all written--the words had done it alone." ("Je n'avais qu'à mettre les paroles sur le pupitre, prendre mon chapeau et sortir. Quand je revenais la musique était toute écrite, les paroles l'avaient faite toutes seules.")

He related incidents connected with his youth. His father was a banker very well off, rich even, and had destined Auber to be a banker, like himself; but when Auber went to London to commence his clerkship he found he had no vocation for finance, and began to devote himself to music and composition. He was thirty-six years old when he wrote his first opera. He told us that his first ones were so bad that he had given them to the Conservatoire _pour encourager les commençants_.

Breakfast had long since finished; but dear old Auber rambled on, and Mademoiselle and I sat listening.

He said he was going to leave all his music to me in his will. I thanked him, and replied nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have something which had belonged to him.

"Je ne regarde jamais mes partitions sans être gagné par la tristesse et sans penser que de morceaux à retoucher! En composant, je n'ai jamais connu d'autre muse que l'ennui."

"On ne le dirait pas," said Mademoiselle, wanting to join the conversation. "Votre musique est si gaie, si pleine d'entrain."

"Vous trouvez! Vous êtes bien bonne. Je ne sais comment cela arrive. Il n'y a pas de motifs parmi ceux qu'on trouve heureux, que je n'ai pas écrit entre deux baîllements. Je pourrais," he went on, "vous montrer tel passage où ma plume a fait un long zigzag parce que mes yeux se sont fermés et ma tête tombait sur la partition. On dirait, n'est ce pas? qu'il y a des somnambules lucides."

We thought Auber seemed very fatigued, and we soon left him, driving back the same way we came, and reached home without any adventures.

_7th of May._

I received this morning, by a mysterious messenger, a curious document; it looks like a series of carriage-wheels, but it is a cipher from Prince Metternich, who is in Bordeaux, and is dated the 1st of May. It took me a long time to puzzle it out: "Vous conseille de partir; pire viendra. Pauline à Vienne; moi triste et tourmenté."

Very good advice, but rather difficult to follow now.

Never has Paris led such a sober life; there is no noise in the almost empty and dimly lighted streets; there are no drunkards, and, strange to say, one hears of no thefts. There are, I believe, one or two small theaters open, most of the small cafés, and a great many wine-shops. The soldiers slink about, looking ashamed of their shabby uniforms and ragged appearance.

Thiers has done all in his power to conciliate the different parties, but has now concluded that Paris must be conquered by the troops of Versailles. Every day there comes more disturbing news. How will it all end? When shall we get out of this muddle? _En attendant,_ we live in a continual fright.

A note came yesterday from Mr. Washburn (I don't know if he is in Paris or not). He writes: "Nothing could be worse than the present state of affairs. I wish you were out of Paris; hope you are well," etc.

If we could get a message to him, we would tell him that we are well enough, and have enough to eat; that Mademoiselle Wissembourg and I tremble all day; but that Mr. Moulton has not enjoyed himself so much since the last revolution.

Slippers all day if he likes.

_May 8th._

Though I have so much time on my hands (I never have had so much), I really have not the heart to write of all the horrors we hear of and the anxieties of our daily life. Besides, you will probably have heard, through unprejudiced newspapers, all that is happening here, and know the true facts before this dismal letter reaches you. And who knows if letters leave Paris regularly in the chaotic state of disorder and danger we are now in?

I cannot write history, because I am living in it. I can only tell you the news which Louis gathers when he does his errands, coming home with the wildest tales, of which we can only believe the half.

I have read somewhere that some one lived "in a dead white dawn of thought." I have not the slightest idea what "a dead white dawn of thought" can be (I have so little imagination); but whatever it is, I feel as if I was living in it now. I don't remember in all my life to have stagnated like this.

We are glad Mrs. Moulton left Paris when she did, and is now in a bourne of safety at Dinard, taking my place with the children while I take hers in the Rue de Courcelles.

This is no sacrifice on my part; the existence we are leading now interests me intensely, being so utterly different from anything I have ever known, and I do not regret having this little glimpse into the unknown.

I cannot go to the ambulances, as we (Mademoiselle and I) do not dare to walk, and driving is out of the question.

I have not seen Auber for many days; Beaumont has not been here either, and we do not know where he is.

They still go on issuing some official newspapers, though whether what they contain is true, or how far the imaginations of the editors have lured them into the paths of fiction, we cannot tell. If we live through this _débâcle_ I count on history to tell us what we really have been living through. However, truth or fiction, I am thankful that we have the newspapers, for how would I ever have a moment's sleep if I did not listen to Mr. Moulton's intoning the _Moniteur_ and the _Journal des Débats_ (the _Figaro_ has been suppressed) to us, and we did not have our three-handed drowsy whist to doze over.

_May 9th._

While we were at breakfast this morning the servant came rushing in, pale and trembling, and announced to us that pillage had commenced in the Boulevard Haussmann, just around the corner, and that the mob was coming toward our house. We flew to the window, and, sure enough, there we saw a mass of soldiers collected on the other side of the street, in front of the Princess Mathilde's palace, gesticulating and pointing over at us.

We thought our last day had come; certainly it did look like a crisis of some kind. We gazed blankly at one another. Mademoiselle disappeared, to seek refuge, I fancy, between the mattresses of her bed, and the smile and the urbane language with which she was prepared to face this emergency (so often predicted by her) disappeared with her.

The mob crossed the street, howling and screaming, and on finding the gate locked began to shake it. The frightened _concierge,_ already barricaded in his lodge, took care not to show himself, which infuriated the riotous crowd to such an extent that they yelled at the top of their lungs to have the gate opened.

Mr. Moulton sent a scared servant to order the still invisible _concierge_ to open not only one gate, but all three. He obeyed, trembling and quaking with fear. The Communists rushed into the courtyard, and were about to seize the unhappy _concierge,_ when Mr. Moulton, seeing that no one else had the courage to come forward, went himself, like the true American he is,... out on to the _perron_, and I went with him. His first words (in pure Angle-Saxon), "Qu'est-ce que vous voolly?" made the assembled crowd giggle.

The leader pushed forward, and, presenting a paper with the official seal of the _Comité de Transport_, demanded, in the name of the Commune (_requisitioned_, they call it), everything we had in the way of animals.

Mr. Moulton took the paper, deliberately adjusted his spectacles, and, having read it very leisurely (I wondered how those fiery creatures had the forbearance to stay quiet, but they did; I think they were hypnotized by my father-in-law's coolness), he said, in his weird French, "Vous voolly nos animaux!" which sounded like _nos animose_. The crowd grinned with delight. His French saved the situation. I felt that they would not do us any great harm now.

Mr. Moulton fumbled in his pocket, and, judging from the time he took and the depths into which he dived, one would have thought he was going to bring out corruption enough to bribe the whole French nation. But he only produced a gold piece, which he flourished in front of the spokesman, and asked if money would be any inducement to leave us _les animose_. But the not-to-be-bribed Communard put his hand on his heart, and said, in a tone worthy of Delsarte, "Nous sommes des honnêtes gens, Monsieur," at which my father-in-law permitted himself to smile. I thought him very brave.

Raising his voice to an unusually high pitch, he cried, "Je ne peux pas vous refiuser _le_ cheval, mais [the pitch became higher] je refiuse _le_ vache (I cannot refuse to give you the horse; but I refuse the cow)."