Chapter 19

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.

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.

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.