_March 18th._
It seemed so strange to wake up and find myself in my room. An orderly
brought me a very neatly arranged tray, with tea and buttered toast and a
note from Henry announcing the terrible news that Paris was under arms--a
revolution (_rien que ça_) had broken out, and all approaches to the
city were barricaded. This was news indeed! I understood now why no
carriage came last night, why trains were stopped, why telegraph wires
were cut, and why no mother-in-law appeared.
Henry was waiting to communicate with me as soon as I was out of my room.
Indeed, a more stranded mortal than I was could hardly be imagined!
However, there seemed nothing for me to do but to await events.
The officers met us in the salon, and we discussed the situation and
different possibilities, but without any practical result.
Every one was much excited about the news. The officers pretended not to
know more than _we_ did; perhaps what they did know they did not care to
tell. We saw messengers flying in all directions, papers handed about,
more messengers galloping down the avenue, agitation written on the faces
around us. All I knew was that there was a revolution in Paris and _I
was here_.
Going out to the stables, we found the soldiers grooming their horses
unconcernedly. From there we went to the _orangerie_, which presented
a queer sight. The soldiers, of whom there must have been sixty, had
arranged their beds all along the walls on both sides, and to separate
them one from another had placed a tub with its orange-tree. The aviary
had been converted into a drying-ground for their _lingerie_; they had
suspended ropes from side to side, and thereon hung their _week's wash_
amid all its "unavoidable destruction." Henry told me that when the
Germans first came to Petit Val they begged old Perault (the butler) to
hand them the key of the wine-cellar, and on his refusing they had tied
the old man to a tree in the park, and left him there the whole of one
cold night to consider the situation. Needless to say, the next day the
Germans had the key. After they had taken all the best Château-Lafitte and
all the rare wines Mr. Moulton had bought during the Revolution of 1848,
they emptied the casks containing the _Petit Bleu, made on the estate!_
The result was disastrous, and could Mr. Moulton have only seen the poor
creatures doubled up with torture he would have felt himself amply
revenged.
We ascended the hill behind the château to the high terrace, from where
one can see Paris. We saw no smoke, therefore Paris was not burning. But
what was happening there? We returned to breakfast, where the military
band was playing on the lawn (a superfluous luxury, I thought, but I did
not realize that so trivial a thing as a revolution could not interfere
with military order). We were treated to the eternal sausage and something
they called beefsteak; it might as well have been called "_suprême de
donkey_," it was so tough. However, the others ate it with iron jaws
and without a pang. Count Arco suggested I should take a drive, _en
attendant les événements_, and see the neighborhood. I acquiesced,
thinking anything in the way of distraction would be a welcome relief.
Imagine my feelings when I saw our _calèche_, a mere ghost of its former
self, dragged by four artillery horses and postilioned by two heavy
dragoons.
"The exigencies of war" had obliged the soldiers to remove the leather,
the carpet, the cushions, and all the cloth; only the iron and wood
remained to show that once this had been a carriage.
This ancient relic drew up with a thump on what had been flower-beds, and
the Count opened the door for me to enter, but on observing my look of
dismay when I saw the hard, cushionless seats, despatched an officer to
try to find a cushion for me. Apparently, however, cushions were souvenirs
our friends had forgotten to bring with them from other residences.
Judging from the time we waited, the officer must have ransacked the whole
house, but had found nothing better than a couple of bed-pillows, with
which he appeared, carrying one under each arm, to the great amusement of
the beholders. I mounted this grotesque equipage, the Count and Henry
following, and sat enthroned on my pillows of state.
We asked, before starting, if there was any news from Paris, and receiving
an answer in the negative, we drove off. Up hills, over lawns and flower-
beds, zigzagging through vineyards and gardens, never by any chance
keeping to the proper road, we made the tour of the environs.
To give you an idea how completely the châteaux had been ransacked, I can
tell you that I picked up about a yard and a half of handsome Brussels
lace in the courtyard of the château of Sucy. We drove hastily through the
adjoining estate of Grand Val, which looked even more deplorable than
Sucy. I began to wonder if the artillery horses and the carcass of the
vehicle in which we sat would be capable of carrying me to Paris, or at
least within walking distance of it. You see, I was beginning to get
desperate. Here was I, with the day almost over, without any apparent
prospect of getting away. But, as the Psalmist puts it, "Sorrow endureth
for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." My joy came late in the
afternoon, on returning to Petit Val, where I found the landeau of the
American Legation, my mother-in-law, and (hobnobbing with the German
officers) the American Minister himself, the popular and omnipotent Mr.
Washburn.
They were overjoyed to see me, as they had been as anxious as I had been,
having tried every means in their power to reach me. To telegraph was
impossible; to send a groom on horseback equally so. Finally, as a last
resource, they had written to Mr. Washburn to see if he could not solve
the difficult question, which he did by driving out himself with Mrs.
Moulton to fetch me.
As soon as the horses were sufficiently rested (my hosts and I being
profuse in our mutual thanks), we started for Paris, passing through
Alfort, Charenton, and many villages, all more or less in ruins. There
were plenty of people lounging about in the streets. We reached Vincennes
without difficulty; but thenceforth our troubles commenced in earnest.
Mr. Washburn thought it more prudent to close the carriage, cautioning the
coachman to drive slower. We were stopped at every moment by soldiers and
barricades; then Mr. Washburn would show his card and his _laissez
passer_, after which we were allowed to pass on, until we came to more
soldiers and more barricades. Omnibuses turned over, paving-stones piled
up, barrels, ladders, ropes stretched across the streets, anything to stop
the circulation. Poor Mr. Washburn was tired out popping his head first
out of one window then out of the other, with his card in his hand.
[Illustration: ELIHU WASHBURN
United States Minister to France during the Commune]
The men who accosted us were not discourteous, but spoke quite decidedly,
as if they did not expect to be contradicted. We did not care to
contradict them, either.
"We know you, Monsieur, by reputation, and we know that you are well
disposed toward France. How do you feel toward _la Commune_?" Mr.
Washburn hesitating a moment, the man added, cynically, "Perhaps you would
like to add a stone to our barricades." He made as if he would open the
door of the carriage; but Mr. Washburn answered, holding back the door, "I
take it for granted, Monsieur, that I have your permission to drive on, as
I have something very important to attend to at my Legation," and gave the
man a defiant look, which rather frightened him, and we drove through the
crowd. All along the Rue de Rivoli we saw the soldiers massing together in
groups, _La Garde nationale_ (Mr. Washburn said they so called themselves
since yesterday), a miserable-looking set of men, talking very loud and
flourishing their guns as if they were walking-sticks.
In passing the Rue Castiglione we saw it was full of soldiers, and looking
toward the Place de la Concorde we saw more barricades there.
This was a sight to behold! The space around the Column was filled with
paving-stones and all sorts of débris (strange to say, my eyes saw more
brooms than anything else); and cannon pointing everywhere. A very
impertinent, common-looking _voyou_ said, on looking at Mr. Washburn's
card, "Vous êtes tous très chic... mais vous ne passerez pas, tout de
même."
We shook in our shoes.
But Mr. Washburn, equal to the occasion, said something which had the
desired effect, and we passed on.
All along the Rue de Rivoli the yesterday-fledged soldiers were straggling
about, glad to have a day of leisure. They brandished their bayonets with
a newly acquired grace, pointing them in front of them in such a reckless
way that people made a large circle around them, frightened to death.
As we passed the Hôtel de Ville we saw the red flag of the Communards
waving over the Palace. Barricades and cannon filled the space between
that and the Rue de Rivoli. Here we were stopped again, and tired Mr.
Washburn, annoyed to death, answered more stupid questions, showed his
card and documents, and gave a little biography of himself. I thought we
should never get on.
I could have cried when I saw the Tuileries; it was only last August I had
had a delightful half-hour with the Empress (she asked me to take tea with
her). Then she was full of confidence in the triumph of the Emperor (who
could have doubted it?), pleased that her son should have received _le
baptême du feu_, as the Emperor telegraphed--oh, the pity of it all! and
that was only last August--seven months ago.
As we drove by I thought of the famous ball given at the Tuileries last
May (_Le bal de Plébiscite_), the most splendid thing of its kind one
had ever seen.
And now! The Tuileries deserted, empty, the Emperor a prisoner, the
Empress a fugitive! All France demoralized! All its prestige gone! One
wonders how such things can be.
[Illustration: RUE DE RIVOLI, WHERE THE HÔTEL CONTINENTAL NOW STANDS]
Mr. Washburn said he was not sorry to have remained in Paris (an
experience he would on no account have missed). He thought he had been of
service to his own country and also to France.
Mrs. Moulton remarked, "What would those shut up in Paris have done
without you?"
"Oh! I was only a post-office," he answered.
"The only _poste restante_ in Paris," I said under my breath; but I did
not dare utter anything so frivolous at the moment.
In the Faubourg St.-Honoré things were much quieter, though there were
numbers of soldiers slouching about with their muskets pointing every
which way. When we arrived at last in the Rue de Courcelles (it had taken
us four hours) all was as quiet as Sunday in Boston.
Mr. Moulton had been almost crazy with anxiety; but the thought that we
were sailing under the American colors had calmed him somewhat, and his
past emotions did not prevent him from reading the _Journal des Débats_ to
us. I slipped off to bed tired out, but thankful not to be any longer
"under protection."
_March 20th._
Louis asked permission to go and assist at the proclamation of the
Commune, which was to be read at the Hôtel de Ville.
There was a platform built in front of the façade, which was decorated
with many red flags and covered with a red carpet, and all the new members
of the committee wore the symbolical red sashes over their worthy
shoulders. The statue of Henry II. was duly draped with red flags and
ragged boys. Louis stood first and foremost among many of his old
comrades, the famous and plucky Zouaves. Henri d'Assy read the
proclamation out in a loud voice, and informed the public that the Commune
(this new and charming infant) was baptized in the name of _Liberté_,
_Égalité_, and _Fraternité_. There was great enthusiasm, and a salvo of
artillery underlined the big words, and there arose a mighty shout of
"Vive la Commune!" from thousands of hoarse throats which shook the very
earth. Louis's account was worth hearing; but mine is only the truth with
variations. He was most impressed, and I fancy it would not have taken
much persuasion to have made him a red-hot Communist then and there.
Great excitement prevailed all Sunday. The Communists remained in
possession of all the public buildings. The red flag was hoisted
everywhere, even from the palace of the Princess Mathilde, who, as you
know, lives directly opposite us. The Princess had left Paris last
September. All the world knows how our clever American dentist, Dr. Evans,
helped the Empress safely out of Paris, and of her flight; and after the
catastrophe of Sedan it would have been dangerous for any member of the
Imperial family to have remained here. As I look from my window across to
the Princess's palace, and see all the windows open and the courtyard
filled with shabby soldiers, I realize that we are _en pleine Commune_,
and wonder when we shall come out of all this chaos, and how it will all
end.
To-day there was a great demonstration in the streets.
A young fellow named Henri de Pène thought if he could collect enough
people to follow him he would lead them to the barricades in the Place
Vendôme, in order to beg the Communards, in the name of the people, to
restore order and quiet in the city. He sent word beforehand that they
would come there _unarmed_.
De Pène started at a very early hour from the distant Boulevards, calling
to every one and beckoning to them, in order to make them come from their
balconies and from their work, and shouting to all in the streets, managed
to assemble a large crowd to join in his courageous undertaking.
I happened to go at one o'clock to Worth's, in the Rue de la Paix, and,
finding the street barred, I left my coupé in the Rue des Petits Champs,
telling Louis to wait for me in the Rue St.-Arnaud (just behind the Rue de
la Paix), and I walked to No. 7.
I wondered why there were so few people in the streets. The Place Vendôme
was barricaded with paving-stones, and cannon were pointing down the Rue
de la Paix. I walked quietly along to Worth's, and hardly had I reached
his salon than we heard distant, confused sounds, and then the shouting in
the street below made us all rush to the windows.
What a sight met our eyes!
This handsome young fellow, De Pène, his hat in his outstretched hand,
followed by a crowd of men, women, and children, looked the picture of
life, health, and enthusiasm.
De Pène, seeing people on Worth's balcony, beckoned to them to join him;
but Mr. Worth wisely withdrew inside, and, shaking his Anglo-Saxon head,
said, "Not I." _He_, indeed!
The crowd bore banners on which were written: "_Les Amis du Peuple_,"
"_Amis de l'Ordre_" "_Pour la Paix_" and one with "_Nous ne sommes pas
armés._" This mass of humanity walked down the Rue de la Paix, filling the
whole breadth of it.
One can't imagine the horror we felt when we heard the roar of a cannon,
and looking down saw the street filled with smoke, and frightened screams
and terrified groans reached our ears. Some one dragged me inside the
window, and shut it to drown the horrible noises outside. De Pène was the
first who was killed. The street was filled with dead and wounded. Mr.
Hottingeur (the banker) was shot in the arm. The living members of _Les
Amis_ scampered off as fast as their legs could carry them, while the
wounded were left to the care of the shopkeepers, and the dead were
abandoned where they fell until further aid should come.
It was all too horrible!
I felt terribly agitated, and, moreover, deadly sick. My one thought was
to reach my carriage and get home as quickly as possible. But how was I to
accomplish it? The Rue de la Paix was, of course, impossible. Worth had a
courtyard, but no outlet into the Rue St.-Arnaud. He suggested that I
should go through his _ateliers_, which he had at the top of the house,
and reach an adjoining apartment, from which I might descend to the Rue
St.-Arnaud, where I would find my carriage. He told one of his women to
lead the way, and I followed. We toiled up many flights of wearisome steps
until we arrived at the above-mentioned ateliers. These communicated with
another apartment, of which Worth's woman had the key. On her opening the
door we found ourselves in a small bedroom (not in the tidiest condition),
which appeared to have just been occupied.
We passed through this room and came out to a staircase, where the
demoiselle said, "You have only to go down here." I therefore proceeded to
descend the five flights of waxed steps, holding on to the wobbly iron
railing, my legs trembling, my head swimming, and my heart sick. My only
hope was to reach the carriage and home!
When at last I came to the _porte-cochère_ I found it closed and locked,
and the frightened _concierge_ would not open for me. Fortunately, I had a
gold piece to make her yield to my demand. She reluctantly unfastened the
door and I went out. The street was filled with a terrified mob howling
and flying in every direction. I caught a glimpse of the carriage away up
the street, and I saw a hand gesticulating above the heads of the crowd,
which I recognized as Louis's. It was the only one with a glove on!
I pushed my way through the mass of people, saying, very politely,
"Pardon," as I pushed, and very politely, "Merci," after I had passed.
My horse had been unharnessed, and a man was trying to lead him away in
spite of Louis's remonstrances. The man had hold of one side of the
bridle, while Louis, with a pluck unknown before, kept a firm grip on the
other, the horse being tugged at on both sides; and had he not been the
angel he was, there would have been trouble in that little street.
The man holding the bridle opposite to Louis seemed a most formidable
person to me. Still, I tried to smile with placid calmness, and though I
was shaking all over said, "Pardon, Monsieur, will you permit me to have
my horse harnessed?" I think he was completely taken off his guard, for,
with the intuitive gallantry of a Frenchman, he answered me amiably,
throwing back his coat, and showing me his badge, said, "I am the agent of
the Committee of Public Safety, and it is for the Government that I take
the horse."
I made him observe that it would be very difficult for me to walk to my
home in the Rue de Courcelles, and if his government wanted the horse it
could come there and fetch it. He looked doubtfully at me, as if weighing
the situation, then said, very courteously, "I understand, Madame, and I
give you back your horse." And he even helped Louis to reharness the
horse, who seemed happy to return to his shafts.
When I arrived home I had to go to bed, I was so exhausted. Mademoiselle
W---- administered the infallible camomile tea, her remedy for every ill.
Her mind cannot conceive of any disease which is not cured by camomile
tea, unless _in extremis_, when _fleurs d'oranger_ takes its place.
_24th of March._
The American secretary, Mr. Hoffman, and his wife, who are living in
Versailles, invited Mrs. Moulton and me to luncheon to-day, saying that
Mr. Washburn was also of the party; therefore we need have no fear of
being molested or inconvenienced on our way.
There were only two trains to Versailles now. We took the one at midday
from Paris, and arrived slowly but surely at the dirty, smoky station,
where we found Mr. Hoffman waiting for us with a landau, in which we drove
to his house.
We had an excellent luncheon, to which we all did justice; after which Mr.
Hoffman proposed our going to the _Assemblée_, which has its sittings
in the Palace, and we readily consented. I was particularly glad to have
an opportunity to see the notabilities whose names and actions had been
our daily food these last months.
We sat in Mr. Hoffman's box, who, in his position as secretary of the
American Legation, had been obliged to attend all these _séances_ from the
first. He knew all the celebrities, and most amiably pointed them out to
me. Thiers was in the president's chair; Louis Blanc, Jules Favre, Jules
Grévy, and others were on the platform.
I confess I was rather disappointed; I thought that this pleiades of
brilliant minds would surely overcome me to such a degree that I should
not sleep for weeks. But, strangely enough, they had just the opposite
effect. I think Mr. Washburn must be writing a book on modern history, and
Mr. Hoffman must be writing one on ancient history. I sat between them--a
drowsy victim--feeling as if my brain was making spiral efforts to come
out of the top of my head.
While I was trying with all my might to listen to Thiers's speech, who, I
was sure, was saying something most interesting, Mr. Hoffman, on one side
of me, would say, in a low tone, "Just think of it! Here, in these very
same boxes, the pampered and powdered [or something like that] Court of
Louis XIV. sat and listened to Rameau's operas." I tried to seem
impressed. Then, on the other side, I would hear, "Do you know, Mrs.
Moulton, that the Communists have just taken seven millions of francs from
the Bank of France?" The distant, squeaky voice of Thiers trying to
penetrate space, said, "La force ne fonde rien, parce qu'elle ne résout
rien." And when I was hoping to comprehend why "La force" did not "fonder"
anything I would hear Mr. Hoffman whisper, "When you think that Louis XVI.
and Marie Antoinette passed the last evening they ever spent in Versailles
in this theater!" "Really," I replied vaguely. My other neighbor remarked,
"You know the 'Reds' are concentrating for a sortie to Versailles." "You
don't say so!" I answered, dreadfully confused. There would be a moment's
pause, and I caught the sound of General Billet's deep basso proposing
that the French nation should adopt the family of General Lecomte, who had
been so mercilessly butchered by the mob. Mr. Hoffman, continuing
_his_ train of thought, remembered that Napoleon III. gave that
"magnificent dinner" to Queen Victoria in this theater. Jules Grévy talked
at great length about something I did not hear, and when I asked Mr.
Hoffman what it was, he answered me, something I did not understand. Jules
Favre next spoke about the future glories of _notre glorieux pays_ and the
destiny of France. These remarks were received with tremendous applause.
People stood up, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs, every one seeming
very excited; but my American friends were not greatly impressed. "How
typical!" says Mr. Hoffman. "What rubbish!" says Mr. Washburn.
When we returned to Paris we found Mr. Moulton in a flutter of agitation.
Beaumont (the renowned and popular painter) had been at the house in the
afternoon, and had asked Mr. Moulton's permission to bring Courbet (the
celebrated artist, _now_ a Communard) to see us. Mr. Moulton had no sooner
said yes than he regretted his impulsiveness, but he forgot to call
Beaumont back to tell him so. The result was that we had the visit of
Courbet last evening.
Mr. Moulton put on a bold face and broke the news to us on our arrival;
but, contrary to his fears, Mrs. Moulton and I were enchanted.
Mademoiselle Wissembourg was not so enthusiastic. A live Communard at such
near focus had no attraction for her.
Beaumont's politics are sadly wanting in color, making him supremely
indifferent to other people's politics; and, as he has a great admiration
for Courbet as an artist, he does not care whether he is a Communard or
not.
We waited with impatience for the appointed hour, and lo! Courbet stood
before us. Mademoiselle Wissembourg had once remarked that she had great
sympathy for the people, who must feel themselves oppressed and degraded
by the rich and powerful, and so forth. But I noticed, all the same, that
she retired into a corner, probably thinking Courbet was bristling all
over with pistols, as behoves a Communard.
Courbet is not handsome; he is fat and flabby (of the Falstaff type), with
a long beard, short hair, and small eyes; but he is very clever, as clever
as Beaumont, which is saying a good deal.
Of course they talked of "the situation." Who could help it? Courbet
belongs more to the fraternity part of the motto than he does to the
equality part of the Commune! He is not bloodthirsty, nor does he go about
shooting people in the back. He is not that kind! He really believes (so
he says) in a Commune based on principles of equality and liberty of the
masses. Mr. Moulton pointed out that unlimited liberty in the hands of a
mob might become dangerous; but he admitted that fraternity absolves many
sins.
They talked on till quite late. Beaumont showed him his last picture,
which he (Beaumont) thinks very fine, but all Courbet said was, "What a
pretty frame!" I don't know if Mrs. Moulton and I felt much admiration for
the great artist, but he left us convinced that we were all in love with
him. We told Mr. Moulton we thought it might get us into trouble if
Courbet vibrated between us and the hotbed of Communism. But Mr. Moulton
answered, "What does it matter now?" as if the end of the world had come.
Perhaps it has.
_March 24th._
Since I have been in Paris I have wished every day to go and see my former
singing-master, Delsarte; but something has always prevented me.
To-day, however, having nothing else to do, I decided to make the long-
projected visit; that is, if I could persuade Mademoiselle to accompany
me. After my experience in the Rue St.-Arnaud the other day I did not
venture to drive, so we started off to walk (with Mademoiselle's reluctant
consent) to the Boulevard de Courcelles, where Delsarte moves and has his
being.
Poor Mademoiselle was frightened almost to death, shaking with terror at
every sound, and imagining that the Communards were directly behind us,
dodging our footsteps and spying upon our actions. At the sight of every
ragged soldier we met she expected to be dragged off to prison, and when
they passed us without so much as glancing at us I think she felt rather
disappointed, as if they had not taken advantage of their opportunities.
Finally we reached the house, and mounted the six stories, the stairs of
which are steep, slippery, and tiring. On our upward flight I remarked to
Mademoiselle that I wished Delsarte lived in other climes; but she was far
too much out of breath to notice any such little joke as this. I saw no
change either in him or in any of his surroundings.
He told us that he had suffered many privations and deprivations while the
siege was going on. Probably this is true; but I do not see how he could
have needed very much when he had the piano to fall back on, with all its
resources. How vividly the scenes of my former lessons loomed up before
me when I stood shivering with cold in the never-heated room, my voice
almost frozen in my throat, and was obliged to sing with those awful
diagrams staring me in the face!
Delsarte asked me many questions about my music: whether I had had the
heart to sing _pendant ce débâcle_. I said, "_Débâcle_ or no _débâcle_, I
could never help singing."
My dear old friend Auber came to see me this afternoon. He had not had
much difficulty in driving through the streets, as he had avoided those
that were barricaded. We had a great deal to talk about. He had been in
Paris all through the war and had suffered intensely, both physically and
mentally; he looked wretched, and for the first time since I had known him
seemed depressed and unhappy. He is old and now he looks his age. He is a
true Parisian, adores his Paris, and never leaves it, even during the
summer, when Paris is insufferable. One can easily imagine his grief at
seeing his beloved city as it is now. He was full of uneasy forebodings
and distress. He gave me the most harrowing description of the killing of
General Lecomte! It seems that the mob had seized him in his home and
carried him to the garden of some house, where they told him he was to be
judged by a _conseil de guerre_, and left him to wait an hour in the
most pitiable frame of mind.
The murder of General Clément Thomas was even more dreadful. Auber knew
him well; described him as kind and gentle, and "honest to the tips of his
fingers." They hustled him into the same garden where poor General Lecomte
already was, pushed him against the wall, and shot him, killing him
instantly. Then they rushed upon their other victim, saying, "Now is your
turn." In vain did Lecomte beg to be judged by his equals, and spoke of
his wife and children. But his tormentors would have none of that, and
shot him then and there. Lecomte fell on his knees; they dragged him to
his feet, and continued firing into his still warm body. When the populace
was allowed to come in they danced a saturnalia over his corpse. Auber
said: "My heart bleeds when I gaze on all that is going on about me. Alas!
I have lived too long."
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.
[Illustration: RAOUL RIGAULT]
_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?_"