Chapter 22

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!

_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:

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.

DINARD, _June 18, 1871._

DEAR MOTHER,--Our peaceful life here is a great contrast to the bombs of poor dilapidated Paris. I have still the screams and bursting shells of the Faubourg St. Honoré in my ears.

When I wrote of Strakosch's persisting in his idea of my singing in concerts, I did not dream that I should be telling you that I have succumbed to his tempting and stupendous proposition. It is true that I have said _yes_, and _vogue la galère!_

And the most curious thing is that the whole family sitting in council have urged me to do it.

"Why not?" said Mr. Moulton, making mental calculations. "I would, if I were you," said Mrs. Moulton, overflowing with enthusiasm.

"I agree," said Charles, only seeing the fun of a new experience.

"But," I urged, "I doubt if I can stand on my own merits. Singing in public as an amateur is one thing, and singing as an artist is another." This wise saying was scorned by the council.

I have ordered some fine dresses from Worth, and if my public don't like me they can console themselves with the thought that a look at my clothes is worth a ticket.

Well, the fatal word has gone forth; I shall probably regret it, but it is too late now.

Therefore, dear mother, please break the news gently to the family and the genealogical tree, whose bark, I hope, is worse than its bite.

We leave for America in September. Strakosch goes before, "to work it up," he says.

NEW YORK, _October._

MY DEAR MOTHER-IN-LAW,--Don't send any more letters to the Barlows'. We thought that it was better not to stay with them (pleasant as it was) any longer. There was such a commotion in that quiet house, such ringing of bells and running about. The servants were worn out attending to me and my visitors.

I don't know where to begin to tell you about this wonderful escapade of ours. I call it my "bravura act." It is too exciting! I copy a letter just received from Strakosch, in answer to a letter of mine, to show you what the process of "working up" is. He writes: "You wonder at your big audiences. The reason is very simple. In the first place, people know that you are thought to be the best amateur singer in Paris--'La Diva du Monde'--besides being a favorite in Parisian society, and that you have not only a beautiful voice, but also that you have beautiful toilettes. This is a great _attraction_. In the second place, I allow (_as a great privilege_) the tickets to be subscribed for; the remaining ones are bought at auction. You see, in this way the bids go _'way up_.... I am glad I secured Sarasate to supplement," etc.

We have taken a suite of rooms in the Clarendon Hotel, so as to be near the opera-house, where I go to practise with the orchestra. You cannot imagine how intense the whole thing is.

To feel that I can hold a great audience, like the one that greeted me the first night, in my hand, and to know that I can make them laugh or cry whenever I please--to see the mass of upturned faces--is an inspiring sensation. The applause bewildered me at first, and I was fearfully excited; but one gets used to all things in the end. My songs, "Bel raggio" (Rossini), "Voi che sapete" (Mozart), and "La Valse de Pardon de Ploërmel" (Meyerbeer), were all encored and re-encored.

I said to Strakosch, "I can't go on forever, tripping on and off the stage like that!" He answered, laconically, "Well, you see people have paid much for their tickets, and they want their money's worth."

I said, "I wish the tickets cost less."