Chapter 20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was very cheerful and very pleasant to talk with.

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

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

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

To what are we coming?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_March 29th._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_March 31st._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you La Citoyenne Moulton?"

I answered, "Yes."

"American?"

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

"Does the American Minister know you personally?"

"Yes, very well."

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

I repeated that my affairs required my presence elsewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I considered this extremely diplomatic.

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

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

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

I thought I should faint!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what did I see?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_23d of April._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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