Part 71

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.