Part 68

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.