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)."
The men before us were convulsed with laughter. Then Mr. Moulton gave the
order to bring out the horse, but _not_ the cow. The official turned to
me. "Madame," he said, "you have a cow, and my orders are to take all your
animals. Please send for the cow."
"It is true, Monsieur," I answered, with a gentle smile (like the one
reposing under the mattress), "that we have a cow; but we have the
permission from your Government to keep it."
"Which government?" he asked.
"The French Government. Is that not yours?"
The man could not find anything to answer, and turned away mumbling,
"Comme vous voulez," which applied to nothing at all, and addressed Mr.
Moulton again, "Nous avons des ordres, Monsieur!" But Mr. Moulton
interrupted him, "Ça m'est égal, je refiuse _le_ vache."
Some one in the crowd called out, "Gardez _le_ vache!" This was received
with a burst of applause. I think that these men, rough as they were,
could not but admire the plucky old gentleman who stood there so calmly
looking at them over his spectacles. The servants were all huddled
together behind the glass windows in the _antichambre_, scared out of
their wits, while the terrible Communards were choking with laughter.
It was heart-rending to see poor Louis's grief when he led out the dear,
gentle horse we loved so fondly; the tears rolled down his cheeks, as they
did down mine, and I think a great many of the ruffians around us had a
tear of sympathy for our sorrow, for the merriment of the few moments
before faded suddenly from their pale and haggard faces.
When Louis leaned his kind old face against the nose of his companion of
the stable he sobbed aloud, and when he gave the bridle over to the man
who was to take the horse away he moaned an adieu, saying, "Be good to
her!"
I went down the steps of the _perron_ (the men politely making way for me)
and kissed my poor darling Medjé, and passed my hand over her soft neck
before she left us for her unknown fate. She seemed to understand our
sorrow, for, as she was being led out of the courtyard, she turned her
head toward us with a patient, inquiring look, as if to say, "What does it
all mean?"
I hope she will be returned when "no longer needed," as they promise, and
Louis will have the joy of seeing her again.
The now-subdued mob left us, filing out quietly through the gates; they
had come in like roaring lions, but went out like the meekest of lambs.
We returned sorrowfully to the salon. I was so unstrung that Mademoiselle,
who in the meantime had returned, administered a cup of camomile tea to
restore my nerves.
After the fright caused by this last _réquisitionnement_, two of the
servants thought it expedient to find safer quarters in the center of
Paris, and to live in seclusion, rather than run the risk of being
requisitioned themselves.
The forts Mont Valérien, Montrouge, Vanves, and Issy keep up an incessant
firing. We would not be surprised if at any moment a bomb reached us, but
so far we have escaped this calamity. The "Reds" are fighting all around
Paris with more or less success. If one could believe what is written in
the _Le Journal de la Commune_, one would say they were triumphant all
along the line. We have just heard that General Bergeret has been
arrested, no one knows why, except that he did not succeed in his last
sortie, and had then by displeased his colleagues generally. It does not
take more than that to arrest people in these days.
The good Archbishop of Paris (Darboy), the curé of La Madeleine
(Monseigneur Duguerry), also President Bonjean, and the others who were
arrested on the 10th of May, have been kept in Mazas Prison ever since. I
saw a letter of marvelous forbearance and resignation, written by the
Archbishop to the Sisters of the St. Augustine Convent; and the beloved
curé of the Madeleine beseeches people to pray for order to be restored.
Poor martyrs! I hope that their prison will not prove to be the
antechamber of the scaffold; as Rochefort says, "Mazas est l'antichambre
de l'échafaud."
It appears that Félix Pyat really did give his demission as a member of
the Commune, but his colleagues would not accept it.
_10th May_.--While Mr. Moulton was reading this morning's news to us
we were startled by a terrible crash. We were paralyzed with terror, and
for a moment speechless, fearing that all we had dreaded was about to be
realized. After somewhat recovering our equilibrium, we sent for Louis to
find out what dreadful thing had happened.
Louis appeared with the _concierge_, both trembling from head to foot, and
announced that a portion of a bomb which had fallen and exploded near us
had come through the roof, shattering many windows and causing great
havoc. On further examination of the disaster we were greatly relieved to
hear that it was only a question of a damaged roof, windows, and masonry.
No one was killed or even wounded; but all were so completely frightened
that no one dares to sleep on the upper floor. Consequently we have moved
down on the drawing-room floor, and have abandoned the upper stories to
future bombs. Mr. Moulton is located in the salon; Mademoiselle has taken
the _salon jaune_, and I the boudoir. Louis has improvised a bedroom in
the small dining-room, that he may be near us at night if we should need
him. The other servants sleep in the basement.
Our family is now reduced to Mr. Moulton, Mademoiselle, Louis, my maid,
and the cook. Louis has proved himself invaluable. He is the man of all
work. After milking the cow and doing his farming (in the conservatory) in
the early morning, he waits at table, does errands, and gathers whatever
news there is in the neighborhood, helps in the kitchen, and aids Mr.
Moulton in his toilet and into his slippers. He is never tired; is always
ready, early in the morning and late at night, to do anything required of
him. He fills all gaps.
The untiring hens have made their nests in obscure corners in the hothouse
and dream serenely of future posterity, while the one cock scratches for
tired worms to provide for their repasts. I go every morning after
breakfast with a little offering of scraps to add to their meager meals.
It is one of my few occupations.
Louis has succeeded in some of his agricultural schemes, and has raided
mushrooms, radishes, and watercresses, which appear quite a luxury in
contrast to our usual canned things, and almost make us forget other
privations.
This farming of Louis's in the hothouse goes to prove how an unnecessary
palm-garden in time of peace can be transformed into a useful kitchen
garden in time of war. Louis expends the same energy and water that he
used in washing his carriages, much to the detriment of the once fine
greenhouse.
The days are very monotonous. I never imagined a day could have so many
hours. I, who have always been over-busy, and have never found the days
long enough to do all I wanted to do, pass the most forlorn hours
listening and waiting and wondering what will happen next. I wait and wait
all through the sleepless nights. I am so nervous I cannot sleep. I do not
even take off my clothes.
I have my writing-table put in the ball-room, and here I sit and write
these sad letters to you. I play the piano; but I have not the heart to
sing, as you may imagine.
We know that there are many tragedies going on about us, and we hear,
through Louis, awful things; but we only believe the half of what he tells
us.
_May 11th._
The Minister of Finance has spent in a month twenty-six millions for the
war expenses alone.
My two friends, Pascal Grousset and (Rascal) Rigault, spent for their
_menus plaisirs_ nearly half a million, whereas Jourde, who is Minister of
Finance, and could take all the money he liked from the banks, lives in
the same modest apartment, and his wife still continues to take in washing
as of old, showing that he, at least, is honest among thieves.
Grousset's appeal to the large cities of France is very theatrical. He
reproaches them with their lukewarmness and their platonic sympathy, and
calls them _aux armes_, as in the "Marseillaise."
We had a very sad experience yesterday. At seven o'clock the _concierge_
was awakened from his slumbers, which (if one can judge from the repeated
efforts at his bell of persons who come before breakfast) must be of the
sweetest and most profound nature.
On cautiously peeping out, he saw a poor fellow leaning against the gate
in a seemingly exhausted condition; he had been wounded, and begged to be
allowed to come inside our courtyard. The _concierge_, who thinks it
wise to be prudent, consulted with Louis; but neither dared do anything
until Mr. Moulton had given the necessary orders. Louis ran about to wake
up the family, and Mr. Moulton told the porter to take the man directly to
the stables and to go for a doctor. The wounded man begged to see a
priest, and Louis was despatched to bring one. Securing a doctor seemed to
be a great undertaking. The _concierge_ had had cramps in the night
(so he said), which would necessitate his remaining at home, and made so
many excuses that Mr. Moulton lost patience and declared he would go
himself; but this I would not hear of his doing alone, and insisted upon
going with him. Mademoiselle, issuing from her room, appeared in her lilac
dressing-gown, holding a pocket-handkerchief in one hand and a smelling-
bottle to her nose with the other. She was told to keep watch over the
invalid while we were absent. Mr. Moulton and I walked to the Faubourg St.
Honoré, to our apothecary, who gave us the name of the nearest doctor. It
was not pleasant, to say the least, to be in the streets. We were in the
habit of hearing bombs and shells, so that was no novelty; but to see them
whizzing over our heads was a new sensation, and not an agreeable one. We
found a doctor, a most amiable gentleman, who, although he had been up all
night, was quite ready to follow us, and we hurried back to the Rue de
Courcelles, where we found Mademoiselle seated on a water-pail outside the
stables and looking the picture of woe. Her idea of keeping vigil!
The doctor made a hasty examination, and was preparing the bandages when
Louis arrived with the priest. I left them and went into the house to make
some tea, which I thought might be needed; but my father-in-law came in
and said that the man had gone to sleep.
Later, about two o'clock, Louis told us that all was over; the poor fellow
had received the last sacraments, had turned over on his side, and had
breathed his last. We sent for the ambulance; but it was five o'clock
before they took him away.
It made us very sad all day to think that death had entered our gates.
_15th May._--Thiers's house in the Rue St. Georges was pillaged to-day by
the mob, who howled like madmen and hurled all sorts of curses and
maledictions on luckless Thiers, who has done nothing wrong, and certainly
tried to do good.
Auber, who lives in the same street, must have seen and heard all that was
going on. How he must have suffered!
[Illustration: PLACE VENDÔME AFTER THE FALL OF THE COLUMN]
_16th May._--The Column Vendôme fell to-day; they have been working
some days to undermine it at the base of the socle. Every one thought it
would make a tremendous crash, but it did not; it fell just where they
intended it to fall, toward the Rue de la Paix, on some fagots placed to
receive it. They were a long time pulling at it; three or four pulleys,
and as many ropes, and twenty men tugging with all their might--_et
voilà_. The figure that replaced the Little Corporal (which is safe
somewhere in Neuilly) came to earth in a cloud of dust, and the famous
column lay broken in three huge pieces.
I inclose a ticket which Mr. Lemaire obtained somehow, and which, as you
see, permitted him to circulate _librement_ in the Place Vendôme:
[Illustration]
I think it is strange that Auber does not let us hear from him. I fear his
heart is broken, like the column.
The weather is heavenly. The two chestnut-trees in our front courtyard are
in full flower; the few plants in the greenhouse are all putting out buds.
Where shall we be when the buds become flowers?
Last year at this time it was the height of the giddiest of giddy seasons.
One can hardly believe it is the same Paris.
My father-in-law feels very bad that I did not leave when I still had the
chance. So do I,... but now it is too late. I must stay till the bitter
end, and no doubt the end will be bitter: battle, murder, and sudden
death, and all the things we pray against in the Litany.
Dombrowski has failed in his sortie to St. Cloud.
_18th May._--It seems that the Communards wish all France to adopt their
gentle methods, and they believe and hope that Communism will reign
supreme over the country.
Rigault, to prove what an admirable government France has, yesterday
issued the decree to arrest a mass of people. No one knows exactly why,
except that he wishes to show how great his power is. He wants the Commune
to finish in fire and flame as a funeral pile. I hope he will be on the
top of it, like Sardanapalus, and suffer the most. Horrible man!
I received a letter from Mr. Mallet this morning, inclosing an invitation
to assist at a concert given by all the _musiques militaires à Paris_
on the Place de la Concorde, and offering a ticket for two places on the
terrace of the Tuileries. The idea of these creatures on the brink of
annihilation, death, and destruction giving a concert! If it were not so
tragic it would really be laughable.
DEAR LADY,--I wish I could bring you this extraordinary document _de
viva persona_; but I do not like to leave the embassy, even for a
short time. Lascelles and I are well, but very anxious. You will
notice that this invitation is for the 21st. Our friends evidently
think we will be pleasantly attuned to music on that day. They are as
mad as March hares; they will be asking us to dance at Mazas next....
Hoping you are not as depressed as we are, Yours, E. MALLET.
Just as I had finished reading the above we heard a tremendous explosion.
Louis said it was _l'École Militaire_, which was to be blown up to-day.
What are we coming to?
Louis and I ventured to go up to the third story, and we put our heads out
of one of the small windows. We saw the bombs flying over our heads like
sea-gulls. All the sky was dimmed with black smoke, but we could not see
if anything was burning, though we hear that the Tuileries is on fire and
all the public buildings are being set fire to.
An organized mob of _pétroleurs_ and _pétroleuses_ receive two francs a
day for pouring petroleum about and then setting fire. How awful!
Louis assures us that they will not come near us, as their only idea is to
destroy public property. My father-in-law says the fever of destruction
may seize them, and they might pillage the fine houses and set fire to
them. He is having everything of value, like jewels, silver, and his
precious bric-à-brac, carried down to the cellar, where there is an iron
vault, and has showed us all how to open it in case of a disaster.
_May 21st._ (Sunday evening)--The Versaillais entered Paris by the Point
du Jour, led by gallant Gallifet.
_May 22d._--Rigault gave the order that all the hostages (_otages_) were
to be shot. Rigault wrote the order himself. It does not bear any of the
fantastic seals they are so fond of, and of which they have an incredible
quantity. It has been written on a paper (_une déclaration d'expédition du
chemin de fer d'Orléans_). Probably he was trying to get away. It was the
last order he gave, and the last fuse to be used to set fire to the
funeral pile.
This proclamation, of which I give an exact copy, will give you a little
idea of what this horrible brute is capable of:
Floréal, an 79 [the way they date things in republics]. Fusillez
l'Archevêque et les otages; incendiez les Tuileries et le Palais
Royal, et repliez-vous sur la rue Germain-des-Prés.
Procureur de la Commune,
Ici tout va bien. RAOUL RIGAULT.
In the evening of the 22d the victims--forty of them--the good Darboy,
Duguerry, Bonjean, and others--were piled into a transport-wagon with only
a board placed across, where they could sit, and were taken to the place
of execution.
The Archbishop seemed suffering; probably the privations he had endured
had weakened him. Bonjean said to him, "Lean on my arm, it is that of a
good friend and a Christian," and added, "La religion d'abord, la justice
ensuite." As soon as one name was called a door opened and a prisoner
passed out--the Archbishop went first; they descended the dark and narrow
steps one by one. When they were placed against the wall Bonjean said,
"Let us show them how a priest and a magistrate can die."
Rigault ordered their execution two hours after they were taken; and when
some one ventured a remonstrance he curtly replied, "Nous ne faisons pas
de la légalité, nous faisons de la révolution." Some ruffian in the mob
cried out the word "liberté," which reached Darboy's ears, and he said,
"Do not profane the word of liberty; it belongs to us alone, because we
die for it and for our faith." This sainted man was the first to be shot.
He died instantly; but President Bonjean crossed his arms and, standing
erect, stared full in the faces of his assassins with his brave eyes
fastened on theirs. This seemed to have troubled them, for of the nineteen
balls they fired not one touched his head--they fired too low--but all his
bones were broken. The defiant look stayed on his face until the _coup
de grâce_ (a bullet behind his ear) ended this brave man's life. These
details are too dreadful. I will spare you, though I know many more and
worse.
Dombrowski had a slight advantage over l'Amiraut the other day, which
puffed them all up with hope; but how foolish to think that anything can
help now!
_May 23d._--Now they have all lost their heads, and are at their wits'
end. There are thirty thousand artillery and more cannon than they know
what to do with.
Everything is in a muddle; you can imagine in what a fearful state of
anxiety we live. The only thing we ask ourselves now is, When will the
volcano begin to pour out its flames?
If the troops should come in by the Arc de Triomphe and fight their way
through Paris by the Champs-Élysées and the Boulevard there would not be
much hope for us, as we would be just between the two fires.
_May 25th._--The Arc de Triomphe and the Champ de Mars were captured
to-day, and the fighting in the streets has commenced. They are fighting
like mad in the Faubourg St. Honoré. When I open the door of the vestibule
I can hear the yelling and screaming of the rushing mob; it is dreadful,
the spluttering of the fusillades and the guns overpower all other noises.
We hope deliverance is near at hand; but who knows how long before we have
peace and quiet again?
_May 28th._--MacMahon has stormed the barricades and has entered Paris,
taking fifty thousand prisoners. Gallifet has ordered thousands to be
shot.
We are rescued from more horrors. Thank God! these days of trembling and
fear are over.
Pascal Grousset was killed on the barricades. I am thankful to say that
Raoul Rigault has also departed this world. Courbet, Regnaud, a promising
young painter, and how many shall we know of afterward, have been shot.
We hear that Auber became quite crazy and wandered out on the ramparts,
and was killed with the soldiers. He deserved a better fate, my dear old
friend! I am sure his heart was broken, and that that day we breakfasted
with him was not his first but his last _jour de bonheur_.
Seventy-two days of Communism has cost France 850,000,000 francs.