In the Courts of Memory

Paris, 1867

Last week, in the beautiful palace built by Egypt for the Exposition, there was arranged a sort of entertainment for the Viceroy, to which we were invited with the Prince and Princess Metternich. This palace is a large, square, white building of oriental ornamentation and architecture, with a courtyard in the center, where we were received by the Khedive and his suite. A fountain was playing in the middle of the courtyard of marble, surrounded by palmettos and plants of every description. A band of Turkish musicians were seated cross-legged in one of the corners playing on their weird instruments, and making what they seemed to think was music. We sat in low basket-chairs, our feet resting on the richest of oriental rugs, and admired the graceful movements of the dancing-girls, who had not more space than an ordinary square rug to dance upon. There were also some jugglers, who performed the most marvelous and incomprehensible tricks with only an apparently transparent basket, from which they produced every imaginable object.

Coffee à la Turque was served in small cups with their silver filigree undercup, and Turkish paste flavored with attar of roses, and nauseatingly sweet, was passed about, with a glass of water to wash it down. Also cigarettes of every description were lavishly strewn on all the little tables, and hovering about us all the time were the thin-legged, turbaned black menials with baggy silk trousers and bright silk sashes.

Everything was so Oriental that, had I stayed there a little longer, I should not have been surprised to see myself sitting cross-legged on a divan smoking a narghile. I said as much as this to the Khedive, who said, in his funny pigeon-French-English, “Alas! Were it so!”

I cast my eyes down and put on my sainte-ni-touche air, which at times I can assume, and as I looked at his Highness’s dusky suite, who did not look over and above immaculate, in spite of the Mussulman’s Mussulmania for washing, I thanked my stars that it “were not so.”

The interpreter who was on duty said to Prince Metternich: “Mussulmans drink no wine, nor does the Prophet allow them to eat off silver. Therefore, to ease our consciences” (he said, mettre nos consciences à couvert), “we tell them that the silver plates on which they eat are iron plated with silver. They think the forks are also iron, otherwise they would eat with their fingers.”

The interpreter added that Mussulmans did not think the Parisian newspapers very interesting, because they contained so few crimes and no murders worth mentioning. What an insight this gives of the condition of their country and the tenor of their papers!

We took our leave of the amiable Khedive, who expressed the hope that we would soon meet again.

Before his departure from Paris there came a package with the card of one of his gentlemen, begging me, de la part de Monseigneur, to accept the “accompanying souvenir.” The package contained two enameled bracelets of the finest oriental work in red-and-green, studded with emeralds. He sent an equally gorgeous brooch to the Princess Metternich.

PARIS, June, 1867.

DEAR M.,—I must write you about something amusing which happened to-day. Prince Oscar was most desirous of seeing Delsarte, having heard him so much spoken of. I promised to try to arrange an interview, and wrote to Delsarte to ask him to come to meet the Prince at our house. I received this characteristic answer, “I have no time to make visits. If his Highness will come to see me I shall be pleased,” and mentioned a day and an hour. Prince Oscar, Monsieur Dué, the Swedish secretary, Mademoiselle W——, and I went at the appointed time, mounted Delsarte’s tiresome stairs, and waited patiently in his salon while he finished a lesson.

Monsieur Dué was very indignant at this sans-gêne, and apologized for Delsarte’s want of courtesy; but the Prince did not mind, and occupied himself with looking at Delsarte’s old poetry-books and albums.

Finally Delsarte entered and graciously received his royal visitor. The Prince was most affable and listened to Delsarte’s fantastic theories, pretending to be interested in the explanation of the cartoons, and began to discuss the art of teaching, which exasperated Delsarte to the verge of impoliteness.

Prince Oscar offered to sing a Swedish song, a very simple peasant song, which he sang very well, I thought. The Swedish language is lovely for singing, almost as good as Italian. We looked for some words of praise; but Delsarte, adopting regency manners, which he can on occasions, said, in a most insinuating voice: “Your Highness is destined to become a king, one of these days. Is it not so?”

“Yes,” answered the Prince, wondering what was coming next.

“You will have great responsibilities and a great deal to occupy your mind?”

“Without doubt.”

“You will not have time to devote yourself to art?”

“I fear not.”

“Eh bien!” said Delsarte, and we expected pearls to drop from his mouth, “eh bien! If ever I am fortunate enough to visit your country, I hope you will allow me to pay my most humble respects to you.”

“How horribly impolite,” said the indignant Monsieur Dué. “He ought to have his ears boxed!”

Prince Oscar took it quite kindly, and, giving Delsarte a clap on his back which I am sure made his shoulders twinge, said: “You are right; I shall have other things to think of. There”—pointing to diagram six on the wall, depicting horror, with open mouth and gaping eyes—“is the expression I shall have when I think of music and music-teachers.”

Delsarte, feeling that he had overstepped the mark, said, “Perhaps, mon Prince, you will sing something in French for me.”

Prince Oscar, drawing himself up his whole six feet and four, glanced down at little Delsarte and said, “Mon cher Monsieur, have you ever read the English poets?”

Delsarte looked unutterable things; I blushed for my teacher.

“When I come again to Paris,” the Prince continued, “I will come to see you. Adieu!” and left without further ceremony.

We followed him down the slippery stairs in silence.

Prince Oscar thought this little episode a great joke, and repeated it to many people.

That same evening there was a soirée musicale given for him by the Minister of Foreign Affairs (Marquis de Moustier) The Prince was begged to sing, which he did three or four times. Every one was delighted to hear the Swedish songs. Ambroise Thomas, who was there, said that he thought they were exquisite, especially the peasant song, which he had introduced into his new opera of “Hamlet.” The Prince and I sang the duet, “I Rosens duft.” He was the lion of the evening, and I think that he was very pleased. I hoped that he had forgotten the unpleasant incident of the morning and Delsarte, of whom Monsieur Dué cleverly remarked, “Qui s’y frotte s’y pique—.”

PARIS, July, 1867.

The distribution of prizes for the Exposition took place last Thursday at the Palais de l’Industrie. It was a magnificent affair and a very hot one. You may imagine what the heat and glare must have been at two o’clock in the afternoon on a hot July day. I was glad that I was not old and wrinkled, for every imperfection shone with magnified intensity.

There was a vast platform erected in the middle of the building, which was covered with a red carpet, and over which hung an enormous canopy of red velvet and curtains of velvet with the eagle of Napoleon. The Emperor and Empress sat, of course, in the center, and on each side were the foreign sovereigns; behind them were their suites and the Imperial family. The diplomatic corps had their places on the right of the tribune.

The gentlemen, splendid in their gala uniforms, were covered with decorations, and all the ladies present were in grande toilette and low-necked, and displayed every jewel they possessed.

The building, huge as it was, was packed full, every available seat occupied.

The Prince Imperial distributed the prizes. He looked very dignified when he handed the victors their different medals, accompanying each gift with his sweet and winning smile.

When Count Zichy, of Hungary, mounted the steps of the throne to receive his medal (he got a prize for his Hungarian wines) there was a general murmur of admiration, and I must say that he did look gorgeous in his national costume, which is a most striking one. He had on all his famous turquoises. His mantle and coat underneath, and everything except his top-boots, were encrusted with turquoises, some of them as big as hen’s eggs. They say, when he appears on a gala occasion in his country, his horse’s trappings and saddle are covered with turquoises.

The Sultan sat on the right of the Empress. You never saw anything half as splendid! A shopful of jewelry could not compare to him. He had a collier of pearls which might have made a Cleopatra green with jealousy. He had an enormous diamond which held the high aigrette in place on his fez and the Great Mogul (I was so told) fastened on his breast. His costume was magnificent, and his sabre—which I suppose has cut off a head or so—was a blaze of jewels. He was the point de mire of all eyes; especially when the rays of the sun caught the rays of his diamonds he blazed like the sun itself. The sun did all it could in the way of blazing that day. I know that I never felt anything like the heat in that gigantic hot-house, the sun pouring through each pane of glass and nothing to protect one against it. I felt like an exotic flower unfolding its petals.

It was a very pretty little scene, and I think that every one was impressed when the Prince Imperial went toward the King of Holland to hand him a medal (probably for Dutch cheese). The tall, stately King rose from his seat, and on receiving it bowed deeply with great ceremony. The Prince made a respectful and graceful bow in response, then the King stooped down and kissed his cheek.

I was tremendously interested when the American exhibitors came forward; there were many of them, quite a procession. They looked very distinguished in their simple dress-coats, without any decorations. I was so glad.

When it was all over it was delightful to get out into the fresh air, even if we had to stand and wait patiently about like Mary’s little lamb until the carriage did appear, for we had either to wait or to worm our way, risking horses’ tails and hoofs through the surging crowd of bedecked men and women, who were all clamoring for their servants and carriages.

The coachmen were swearing and shouting as only French coachmen can do on such occasions as this. The line of carriages reached almost the whole way down the Champs Élysées. We finally did find ours, and I was glad to seat myself in it. I had had the forethought to put my hat and mantle in, as we intended to drive out to Petit Val for dinner. I put my hat over my tiara and my mantle on my bare shoulders, and enjoyed driving through the shady streets.

Prince Metternich came out here the other day, I had not seen him since the tragic death of Emperor Maximilian in Mexico. I never would have believed that he could be so affected as he seemed to be by this. He cried like a baby when he told us of the Emperor’s last days, of his courage and fortitude. It seems that, just as he was going to be shot, he went to each of the men and gave them a twenty-franc gold piece, and said, “I beg you to shoot straight at my heart.”

How dreadful it must have been!

Prince Metternich was most indignant at Rochefort, and says he can never forgive him because, in an article in La Lanterne, he called the royal martyr “the Archdupe.” Auber said:

“You must not forget that Rochefort would rather sell his soul than lose an occasion to make a clever remark.”

“Yes, I know,” moaned the Prince. “But how can one be so cruel?”

“C’est un mauvais drôle,” Auber answered (don’t think Auber meant that Rochefort was droll; on the contrary, this is a neat way that the French have of calling a man the worst kind of a scamp), and added, “Rochefort’s brains are made of pétards,” which is the French for firecrackers.

Auber told many anecdotes. I fancy he wanted to cheer Prince Metternich up a little. One of them was that, on taking leave of the Emperor, the Shah had said:

“Sire, your Paris is wonderful, your palaces splendid, and your horses magnificent, but,” waving his hand toward the mature but noble dames d’honneur with an expression of disapproval, “you must change all that.” Imagine what their feelings would have been had they heard him.

PARIS, August, 1867.

DEAR M.,—I thought there would be a little rest for me after the distribution of prizes and before going to Dinard; but repose is a thing, it seems, that I am destined never to get.

Monday morning I received a letter from Princess Metternich saying that the Minister of Foreign Affairs had sent her his box for that evening, to hear Schneider in “La Belle Hélène,” adding that Cora Pearl was to appear as Cupidon as an extra attraction, and asked if we would dine with them first, and go afterward to the theater.

I could not resist an invitation from these two delightful people, therefore we drove into Paris and reached the embassy at half-past six, the hour named for dinner.

Prince Metternich told us that he had had a visit in the afternoon from Monsieur Dué, the Swedish secretary, who had been on the verge of desperation on account of his not having been able to secure a suitable box for King Charles XIV. of Sweden, who arrived last night to spend a few days here. He wished to see Schneider in “La Belle Hélène.” Monsieur Dué had gone to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and suggested that the Minister offer his box; but that had already been given to the Metternichs. When Prince Metternich was informed of this he did not hesitate to place the box in question at the King’s disposal; but, not to disappoint the Princess and me, he had taken an ordinary box opposite. The King was already in his loge when we arrived. He is a large, handsome man with a full, black beard, and has a very pleasant face.

Between the first and second acts Monsieur Dué came to Prince Metternich and told him that the King desired to see him. Of course the Prince went directly, and returned delighted with the King’s affability, and to our great surprise brought us a message from the King, asking us all to come to his box and join him, and proposing to send Monsieur Dué and his gentleman-in-waiting to take our places in our box.

We accepted with pleasure, and passed the rest of the evening in the charming society of the most amiable of kings. He said to me that “Oscar,” as he called his brother (Prince Oscar, the hereditary Prince), had spoken about me and our singing the duet written by his brother, Prince Gustave, and asked how I managed about the Swedish words. I replied that Prince Oscar had taught them to me during the dinner preceding the singing.

“Could you understand the words?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “I only know that it was something about London and Emma.”

The King laughed most heartily, and said, “I shall tell that to Oscar when I go home, and he will see how well you profited by his lessons.”

We were all immensely amused at Cora Pearl’s appearance; it was her debut as an actress. I never saw any one look so sheepish as she did, in spite of her paint and powder and beautiful legs. She wore high-heeled slippers, so high that she could hardly walk, which made her even more awkward than she naturally was. She only had a few lines to sing, and this she did so badly that people nearly hissed her.

She was evidently engaged as a drawing-card; but the only thing she drew was ridicule on herself.

During the second act Lord Lyons came into the box. He had known the King before, and, having heard from the Minister of Foreign Affairs that the King was at the theater, went there to pay his respects. The King, noticing that he had a decoration on, said in French: “Please take that off; I am here incognito. To-morrow I shall be official; then you can put it on.” So Lord Lyons took off his star and put it in his pocket. He wanted to go after the second act, but the King said: “Monsieur Dué has arranged a supper for us at La Maison d’Or. You must come also.” Of course Lord Lyons did not refuse.

Monsieur Dué left the box in advance of the rest of us, in order to arrange everything before the King’s arrival. The King called to him, as he opened the door, “Don’t forget the écrevisses à la Bordelaise; I have been looking forward to them for a long time.”

After the performance, with which the King was delighted (especially with Hortense Schneider’s song, “Dis-moi, Vénus, pourquoi,” etc.), we drove to the Maison d’Or, where we found Monsieur Dué awaiting us. We asked at what time the carriages should come back. He said: “Not before two o’clock. His Majesty never retires before.” We were then shown into a salon, where the Princess Metternich and I were asked by the King to take off our hats. “It is so much more cozy,” he said. So off our hats came. We had not been seated ten minutes when we heard some very loud talking and much discussion in the corridor outside. Lord Lyons, who was nearest the door, jumped up to see what the matter was, opened the door, and peeped out.

“Oh!” said he. “It is the Duke of Brunswick making a row; he is half-seas over!” The King turned to Monsieur Dué (the King does not speak English) and said, “What did Lord Lyons say?” Monsieur Dué’s English did not go very far, but he translated into Swedish what he had understood Lord Lyons to say.

The King seemed very puzzled and, addressing Lord Lyons, said:

“Was not the Duke of Brunswick obliged to leave England for fear of being arrested?” Lord Lyons coughed discreetly, and the King went on: “If I remember rightly, the Duke, who was in the royal box, shot at and killed a danseuse who was on the stage! And did he not leave England in a balloon? It always seemed such an extraordinary thing. Was it true?” Lord Lyons cautiously answered that people had said all that; but it was some time ago, and added, diplomatically, that he had forgotten all the details.

“And I understood,” said his Majesty, “that he can never go back there again.”

“You are right. He cannot go back to England, your Majesty.”

“Oh! don’t Majesty me. To-night I am a simple bourgeois,” the King interrupted, smilingly shaking his finger. “But tell me, how can the Duke dare return there now?”

“He does not dare,” repeated Lord Lyons. “He can never go back.”

“But,” insisted the King, “my good Monsieur Dué says that he is on his way there at this moment.”

Lord Lyons replied, “I think Monsieur Dué must be mistaken, for the Duke is out there in the corridor making all this [I am sure it was on his lips to say “devil of a row,” but he politely said] noise.”

Monsieur Dué then remarked, “Did I not hear you say that he was half way across the channel?”

“I certainly did not say that. What I did say was that he was ‘half-seas over’ which is a slang expression we use in England instead of saying tipsy, or dans les vignes du Seigneur, so prettily put by the French.”

The King laughed very much at this quid pro quo and, looking at Monsieur Dué, said, “I thought your English more up to the mark.”

The King was immediately fired with a desire to see the famous Duke who had dared to cross the channel in a balloon rather than run the risk of being shut up in prison, and we all waited with impatience to see whether Lord Lyons’s persuasive powers went so far as getting the Duke to show himself. Well, they did, and both the gentlemen came into the salon. The Duke bowed low and did not lose his balance. In fact, for a man half-seas over, I thought he looked as if he could get to the end of his journey without disgrace. He said, very politely, “I am afraid I have disturbed you, but this is the salon which has always been put aside for me every night, and I was surprised to learn that it was occupied.”

The Duke is, or rather would have been, a very handsome man if he had not such watery eyes and such a weak mouth; and then he wore the funniest-looking wig I ever saw. It was made out of black (the blackest) sewing-silk and plastered down over his ears. I wonder if it was a disguise, or if he thought any one would ever really take it for his own hair.

The King was very nice to him, and did not seem in the least to mind his being dans les vignes. I fancy, from what Monsieur Dué said, that in Sweden people are used to see their friends always in Seigneurial vineyards—they never see them anywhere else! But he exaggerates, no doubt.

The King said to the Duke of Brunswick, “Will you not sup with us to-night?”

“I thank your Majesty, but I must crave permission to return, for I have some ladies supping with me, including the Cupidon of to-night.”

“Tell her,” said the King, “if she wears such high heels she will come to grief.”

“It will not be the first time,” answered the Duke, with a laugh. “But don’t ask me to say anything like that to her; she would box my ears!” Seeing the waiter making signs to him, the Duke then made a profound bow and, stroking his sewing-silk locks left us.

The universal verdict on him was Quel crétin!

We had a very pleasant supper, and a most unceremonious one, as much so as is possible where there is royalty.

The King said that he was going to be official all the next day, but that he would like to go to the Exposition. Prince Metternich proposed a cup of tea and the delicious hot rolls they turn out at the Vienna restaurant. The King was delighted to accept, and named the hour of half past four in the afternoon. We were also bidden, for which I was much pleased. King Carl is the most delightful and fascinating of monarchs, and quite worthy to be his brother’s brother. To-morrow he is going to be still more official, for he dines at the Tuileries, and there is a gala performance at the opera; Christine Nilsson is going to sing “Faust” with Nicolini and Faure.

To-morrow we leave for Dinard, where there will be no majesties nor Exposition; just plain bread and butter and Brittany cider, which is as hard as a relentless parent.

COMPIÈGNE, November 27, 1868.

When the inclosed invitation came my father-in-law wet-blanketed the whole thing, and I was brokenhearted. The Duke de Persigny, who happened to be in Petit Val at that moment, sympathized with me and tried to change the paternal mind; but the paternal mind was obdurate, and all pleadings were, alas! in vain.

Maison de L’Empereur

Palais des Tuileries, le 2 9’bre 1868.

Premier Chambellan

Monsieur,

Par ordre de l’Empereur, j’ai l’honneur de vous prévenir que vous êtes invité, ainsi que Madame Ch. Moulton, à passer 9 jours au Palais de Compiègne, du 27 9’bre au 5 décembre.

Des voitures de la Cour vous attendront le 27, à l’arrivée à Compiègne du train partant de Paris à 2 heures 1/2 pour vous conduire au Palais.

Agréez, Monsieur, l’assurance de ma considération très distinguée.

Le Premier Chambellan, V’te de Laferrière.

Monsieur Ch. Moulton.

My father-in-law thought it cost too much—my toilettes, the necessary outlay, and especially the pourboires. He said that it was a lot of money, and added, in his most choice French, “Le jeu [he pronounced it ’jew’] ne valait pas la chandelle.” He was right from his point of view, for he had none of the jeu and all of the chandelle. I pined and pouted the whole day, and considered myself the most down-trodden mortal in existence.

Imagine my delight, a few days later, to receive a second document, informing us that our names had been re-entered on the list, and that we were expected, all the same, on the 27th to stay nine days. At the same time there came a note from the Duke de Persigny, in which he said, “Their Majesties desired us particularly to come.” And he added: “Tell your father-in-law that the question of pourboires has been settled now and forever. No more pourboires to be given nor taken at Compiègne.”

Then Mr. M—— gave his consent, and I was blissfully happy.

It seems that the Emperor’s attention had been railed to the many very disagreeable articles in the newspapers on the subject of the extravagant pourboires exacted at Compiègne. The Emperor was very much annoyed, and gave immediate orders to suppress this system, which had been going on for years without his knowledge.

Last night we stayed in Paris, to be ready at half-past two this afternoon. To describe our departure, arrival, and reception would only be to repeat what I have already written last year. Among the fifty or sixty guests there were many who were here then. In addition there are Duke d’Albe, with his daughters; Baron Beyens, the Belgian Minister; Mr. Mallet, of the English Embassy, Mr. Dué of the Swedish Legation; the poet, Prosper Mérimée; and many, of course, I do not know.

Singularly enough, we were shown into the same apartment we had before, which made us feel quite at home. We found tea, chocolate, and cakes on the table, of which I partook with enthusiasm, and then enjoyed an hour’s rest before dressing for dinner.

We met at seven o’clock in the Salle des Fêtes, the only room in this huge chateau large enough to contain all the party here (I suppose there must be one hundred and twenty people), for which reason it serves both as reception and ballroom.

The Empress looked superb in a gown of an exquisite shade of lilac; she wore her beautiful pearls and a tiara of diamonds and pearls. When she approached me she held out her hand, and said she was very glad to see me. The Emperor was kind and gracious, as usual.

The Baron Gourgaud was told to take me in to dinner, and we followed the procession to the dining-room, passing the Cent Gardes, who looked like an avenue of blue and glittering trees. The Baron Gourgaud and I are neighbors in the country, their place, La Grange, being not far from Petit Val. His conversation is not absorbing; but as he knows he is dull he does not pretend to be anything else. I was thankful for this, as I felt that I did not need to make the slightest effort to entertain him.

I cast my eyes round the table, and if I had not known that this was la série amusante I should never have guessed it—every one seemed so spiritless and “sans le moindre entrain,” as my neighbor remarked.

No excitement this evening but the dance. Waldteufel is suppressed! They say that the Emperor, who has a horror of publicity in private life, was very displeased last year by the indiscretions and personal anecdotes, and especially the caricatures made by Gustave Doré, which appeared in the Figaro. The Emperor vowed that no outsiders should be invited again; therefore poor Waldteufel has to pay les pots cassés, and we must make our own music.

Looking for a substitute for Waldteufel, a clever chamberlain discovered the “Debain piano” (mechanical piano).

You remember I had one in my youth. How I loved it! How I used to love to grind out all the beautiful music those ugly boxes contained! And how I used to wonder that those common wooden slides could reproduce such perfect imitations of the real thing.

I was so glad to see one again, and envied the perspiring chamberlain, who looked bored to extinction having to turn the crank, instead of joining the dance and turning the heads of the ladies. It took two of them to manage the complexities of the piano, and as neither possessed a musical turn of the wrist, and as neither had the remotest idea of time or measure, it was very hard for us poor dancers!

When one of the martyrs wanted to explain to the other what to do he would stop and forget to turn the crank. The dancers were thus obliged to pause, one foot in the air, not knowing when to put it down, and when they did put it down they did not fall in measure, and had to commence all over again. This spasmodic waltzing almost made us crazy. As for me, I could not bear it any longer. No chariot nor horses could have kept me away from that piano; to feel again (after so many years) the delight of playing it! And then I wanted to show how it should be played; so I went to the piano and took the crank out of the tired hands of the chamberlain and ground out a whole dance.

I flatter myself that the dancers enjoyed at least this one.

His Majesty walked up to the piano while I was playing and said, “But, Madame, you will tire yourself; you really must stop and let some one take your place.”

I replied: “If your Majesty only knew what a pleasure it is for me to play this piano! I had one like it when I was a little girl, and have never seen one since.”

“Are these pianos not something quite new?” he asked. “I was told that they were the latest invention.”

“They may be,” I answered, “the latest improvement on an old invention; but the pianos are older than I am.”

“That,” answered the Emperor, smilingly, “does not make them very old.”

He called one of the chamberlains, and I reluctantly gave up my place. The Count d’Amelot was summoned, and as we were about to waltz off the Emperor said, “If I danced, I should like to dance with you myself; but I do not dance.”

“Then,” I said, “I must dance without you.”

He laughed: “Vous avez toujours la réplique,” and stood there watching us with those peculiar eyes of his.

I never received so many compliments on piano-playing as I did to-night.

Here is the list of my dresses (the cause of so much grumbling):

MORNING COSTUMES.
    Dark-blue poplin, trimmed with plush of the same color, toque,
      muff to match.
    Black velvet, trimmed with braid, sable hat, sable tippet and muff.
    Brown cloth, trimmed with bands of sealskin, coat, hat, muff to match.
    Purple plush, trimmed with bands of pheasant feathers, coat, hat to
      match.
    Gray velvet, trimmed with chinchilla, chinchilla hat, muff and coat.
    Green cloth (hunting costume).
    Traveling suit, dark-blue cloth cloak.

EVENING DRESSES.
    Light green tulle, embroidered in silver, and for my locks, what they
      call une fantaisie.
    White tulle, embroidered with gold wheat ears.
    Light-gray satin, quite plain, with only Brussels lace flounces.
    Deep pink tulle, with satin ruchings and a lovely sash of lilac
      ribbon.
    Black lace over white tulle, with green velvet twisted bows.
    Light-blue tulle with Valenciennes.

AFTERNOON GOWNS.
    Lilac faille.
    Light café au lait with trimmings of the same.
    Green faille faced with blue and a red Charlotte Corday sash (Worth’s
      last gasp).
    A red faille, quite plain.
    Gray faille with light-blue facings.

Do you not think there is enough to last me as long as I live?

SUNDAY, November 28th.

The mass is at ten o’clock on Sunday, and one meets in the grand salon before going to the chapel.

Madame de Gallifet and I, being Protestants, were not expected; but, as we wanted to go, we decided to don a black lace veil and follow the others.

The chapel is not large, but it is very richly decorated.

The Empress sat in a tribune facing the altar with a chosen few and her dames d’honneur.

The Emperor was not present.

It seemed to me that the mass was very hurried and curtailed. The chorus boys swung their censers nonchalantly, as though they were fanning themselves; probably they were impatient for their breakfast.

The curé did not preach any sermon; he only made an exhortation against the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and told us that we had better be prepared for death, as it might come at any moment. This was nothing new; any one could have said it. He advised us to have our lamps trimmed, for, when our time came we would be cut down like grass and gathered in the garners. Perhaps he meant we ought to make our hay while the sun was shining. I wondered to myself, if some of those old gentlemen sinners who had sown so liberally would not be gathered in as oats. The curé was going on to say that we should not indulge too freely in the good things of this world; but pulled himself up in time, remembering, no doubt, that he was going to breakfast, as he did every Sunday, at the Imperial board and partake of its luxuries.

And before we knew it the mass was finished.

When we returned to the salon it was eleven o’clock, and every one was assembled for déjeuner.

The Marquis d’Aoust happened to sit next to me at table (I say happened, but I believe he manoeuvered so as to do so), and, taking me unawares between two mouthfuls of truites saumonées, decoyed me into accepting a stupendous proposition of his, which was to help him to get up an operetta which he had had the courage to compose. He said the idea had just come into his head; but I thought, for an impromptu idea, it was rather a ripe one, as he had brought the music with him, and had already picked out those he thought could help, and checked them off on his lean fingers. He said the operetta had one act only, which I thought was fortunate, and that it needed only four actors, which I thought was still more fortunate.

The next thing to be done, he said, was to get the singers’ consent. I should have said it was the first thing to be done; but he was so bubbling over with enthusiasm that he was sure every one would jump at the chance of taking part.

He seized the first moment after their Majesties had retired to pounce upon those he had selected, and having obtained their consent he proposed a walk in the long, so-called Treille or Berceau. Napoleon I. built this walk, which is one thousand meters in length and reaches to the edge of the forest, for the Queen Marie Louise. I must say I pitied her toes if she walked there often on as cold a day as to-day; I know mine ached as we paced to and fro while the Marquis explained the operetta. It was really too cold to stay out-of-doors, and we turned back to the little salon, called the Salon Japonais, to finish the séance there.

“What part am I to take?” asked Prince Metternich.

As he could not be anything else, he accepted the role of prompter, and promised all the help he could give. When I went to the Empress’s tea this afternoon I took those questions Aunt M* sent me from America. You know them. You have to write what your favorite virtues are, and if you were not yourself, who you would like to be, and so forth.

I was glad to have something new and original which might amuse people. The Empress, seeing the papers in my hand, asked me what they were. I told her that they were some questions: a new intellectual pastime just invented in America.

“Do they invent intellectual pastimes in America?” she asked, looking at me with a smile. “I thought they only invented money-making.”

“They do that, too,” I replied; “but they have also invented these questions, which probe the mind to the marrow and unveil the soul.”

She laughed and said, “Do you wish me to unveil my soul, comme cela, à l’improviste?”

I answered, “Perhaps your Majesty will look at them at your leisure. I hardly dare to ask the Emperor; but if he would also look at them I should be so happy.”

“Leave them with me, and to-morrow we will see; in any case my soul is not prepared to-day.”

So I left the papers with her.

It is the fashion this year for ladies to wear lockets on a black-velvet ribbon around their necks. The more lockets you can collect and wear, the finer you are. Each locket represents an event, such as a birthday, a bet, an anniversary of any kind, and so forth. Any excuse is good for the sending of a locket. The Empress had seventeen beautiful ones to-day (I counted them). They have a rather cannibalish look, I think. Is it not in Hayti (or in which country is it?) that the black citizens wear their rivals’ teeth as trophies on their black necks?

Who should offer me his arm for dinner to night but Prosper Mérimée, the lion of lions, the pampered poet, who entrances all those who listen to him whenever he opens his lips.

He looks more like an Englishman than a Frenchman; he is quite old, and I fancy older than he looks (he may be fifty). He is tall and dégagé, with a nice smile and pleasant eyes, though sometimes he gives you a sharp and suspicious glance. He speaks English very well. I told him (stretching a point) that I had never heard a foreigner speak such good English as he did.

He replied, without a blush: “I ought to speak it well. I learned it when
I was a child.” And he added, complacently, “I can even write better than
I speak.”

I asked him if he could write poetry in English.

He answered: “I do not think I could. My English goes just so far and no farther. I have what is strictly necessary, but not what is superfluous.” (“J’ai, le stricte nécessaire, mais pas le superflu.”)

“To make rhymes,” said I, “I should think one would have to know every word in the dictionary.”

“Oh!” he said, “I don’t attempt rhymes; they are far beyond me.”

When he talks French he is perfectly delightful. He creates the funniest words, and gives such an original turn to his phrases that you are—at least I was—on the qui vive not to lose anything he said. It is like listening to a person who, improvising on the piano, makes unexpected and subtle modulations which you hate to have escape you.

He told me he had been in correspondence with an English lady for over thirty years.

“Were you in love with her, that you wrote to her all those years?” I inquired.

“I was in love with her letters,” he replied. “They were the cleverest things I ever read—full of wit and humor.”

“Was she in love with you or only with your letters?” I was tactless enough to ask.

“How can you ask?” he said. I wondered myself how I could have asked so indiscreet a question.

“Did she write in English, and did you write in French?”

“Yes, she wrote in English,” he answered, and looked bored.

“Is she dead?” I asked, getting bolder and bolder; but he would not talk any more about this clever lady, and we drifted into other channels of conversation. Too bad! I would have liked to have known if the lady was still living.

I wish I could remember all the pearls which fell from his lips; but alas! one cannot, like Cleopatra, digest pearls. But I do remember one thing he said, which was, “If I should define the difference between men and women, I should say, ‘Que les hommes valent plus, mais que les femmes valent mieux.’”

I wondered if this was one of the pearls he let drop in his letters to the wonderful English bas-bleu.

In the evening we danced to the waltzes of the Debain, and were obliged to tread a very spasmodic measure. The Prince Imperial asked me for a polka, and I had to clutch his shoulder with one hand and beat time with the other on his arm to keep any kind of rhythm in his evolutions. It is nice to see him circulating about and chatting with all the ladies.

November 29th.

A message came to my room this morning, to the effect that I was to sit next to the Emperor. I suppose they thought it best to let me know in time, in case I should go wandering off sight-seeing, like last year, but no danger! Once caught, twice warned, as the saying is.

Therefore, when we descended to the grand salon, I knew what my fate was to be. The Due de Sesto, who had recently married the widow of the Duc de Morny, gave me his arm and deposited me at the side of his Majesty.

The Emperor was in the most delightful spirits, and full of bonhomie and fun. Glancing across the table at a certain diplomat (Baron F——), he said, “I never knew a person more impervious to a joke than that gentleman is.” And then he went on to say that once he had told the Baron the old time-worn joke which any child can understand.

(You have heard it many times, I am sure, dear mama.)

One begins by saying, “Vous me permettez de vous tutoyer (You will permit me to use the thee and thou)?” And then one says, “Pourquoi aimes-tu la chicorée (Why dost thou like chicory)?” To which the answer is, “Parce qu’elle est amère (ta mère) (Because it is ‘bitter’ or ‘your mother’).”

But I had better tell the story in the Emperor’s own language.

“The Baron was making a call upon the Duchess de Bassano, one of the ladies-in-waiting of the Empress, a severe and formal person, as you know, and in deep mourning for her mother. He wished to make himself agreeable and told her this story, saying that it was the most amusing thing he had ever heard. But he forgot to ask her permission to use the thee and thou, and said, point-blank, ‘Pourquoi aimes-tu la salade?’ The Duchess did not understand, and he, bursting out laughing, continued, without waiting for her to speak, ‘Parce qu’elle est ta mère.’ The Duchess arose, indignant. ‘Monsieur, I beg you cease. My poor mother died three months ago. I am still wearing mourning for her!’ With which she burst into tears and left the room.

“The Baron, nothing daunted, tried a second time to relate this anecdote, this time addressing Baronne Pierres, another of the dames d’honneur, entirely forgetting to use the thee and thou. ‘Madame, pourquoi aimez-vous la salade?’ Naturally she had not the slightest idea what he meant, and he rejoined triumphantly, ‘Parce qu’elle est Madame votre mère.’ What annoys me beyond measure,” continued the Emperor, “is that he goes on telling the anecdote, saying, ‘The Emperor told it to me.’”

The Emperor laughed heartily, and I did, too. Then he told me another amusing thing:

At a ball at the Tuileries he said to a young American whose father he had met: “J’ai connu votre père en Amérique. Est-ce qu’il vit encore?” And the young man, embarrassed and confused, answered, “Non, sire; pas encore.” “It is so good,” the Emperor said, “to have a laugh, especially to-day. All the afternoon I shall be plunged in affairs of state.”

I did not forget to tell the Emperor that Delsarte was wildly excited on receiving the present his Majesty had sent him last year. I wandered considerably from the truth, as, in reality, Delsarte, who is not Napoleonic in his politics, had said when I gave it to him, “Comment! c’est Badinguet qui m’envoit cela. Que veut-il que j’en fasse?” with a dark frown, But I noticed he smoked le bon tabac, all the same; and I am sure he said (even to his best friend), “Tu n’en auras pas.”

Of course the Emperor had quite forgotten that such a person as Delsarte had ever existed.

This was a perfectly delightful déjeuner, and I shall never forget it.

The numerous chamberlains were busy arranging the different amusements for the guests, putting horses, carriages, shooting, and excursions at their disposal; but we, unlucky ones, were in duty bound to abide by the Marquis, who had now completed his troupe to his satisfaction. He had enticed the two young Mademoiselles Albe and two of their admirers to undertake the chorus; he was very grateful to them, as otherwise it would have had to be suppressed—perhaps the best thing that could have happened to it.

The Princess Metternich asked us to come to their salon (they have the beautiful apartments called les appartements d’Apollon), in order that we could try the music with the piano which her husband had hired, as usual, for his stay at Compiègne, and which he had put at the disposition of the Marquis.

The Marquis was in ecstasy, and capered about to collect us, and at last we found ourselves stranded with the manuscript and its master, who was overjoyed to embark us on this shaky craft. He put himself at the piano, played the score from beginning to end, not sparing us a single bar. My heart sank when I heard it, it was worse than I thought, and the plot was even worse than the music—naïf and banal beyond words.

A lord of the manor (Vicomte Vaufreland, basso) makes love to a humble village maiden (myself, soprano); the lady of the manor (Madame Conneau, contralto) becomes jealous and makes a scene with her husband; the friend and adviser (Count d’Espeuilles, tenor) steps in and takes his friend’s part and kindly says that it was he who had loved the village maiden. The wife is satisfied, and everything ends beautifully.

It would be very uphill work for the poor Marquis and I wondered if he would really have the patience to go on with it, after realizing how unmusical the men were. D’Espeuilles stood behind the Marquis’s bald head and reached over to put his finger on the note he wanted to sing, and then banged on that, until, after singing every note in the scale, he finally fixed it in his brain.

Could anything be more despairing?

Our next thought naturally was our costumes.

The operetta was laid in the time of Louis XV.

Would we be able to find anything in the various trunks in the gallery next to the theater?

When we went there we found everything we did not want—costumes, odds and ends of all sorts, which belonged to all other periods than Louis XV. The contents of the trunks were in a very chaotic state; each article which once had formed one of a complete costume was without its better half; the unprincipled things had meandered off and got mixed up in other sets.

To be sure, there was a Louis XV. coat, with embroidered pockets and satin-lined coat-tails, but nothing more suitable for culottes could be found than a pair of red-plush breeches, trimmed with lace (I think one calls them “trunk hose”), of Henry II.’s time.

When they were urged upon the Vicomte, he absolutely refused them, saying he would not mix up epochs like that, and, after pulling over everything, he decided to send to Paris for a complete costume.

Count d’Espeuilles was less difficult to satisfy, and was contented with a black-velvet Hamlet costume, with a plumed hat, which suited no epoch at all, but suited his style of beauty.

Madame C—— thought her maid might arrange out of a ball-dress some sort of attire; with powdered hair, paint, and patches, she could represent the lady of the manor very well. My Tyrolean dress of last year would do quite nicely for me, when my maid had put the customary bows on the traditional apron.

We all separated, carrying our carefully written rôles under our arms, and in the worst of tempers.

Monsieur Dué was my neighbor at dinner. He is very musical, and was much interested in hearing about the operetta. He does not think the Marquis has any talent; neither do I! But I don’t wish to give any opinion on the poor little struggling operetta before it has lived its day, and then I am sure it will die its natural death. Monsieur Dué has composed some very pretty things for the piano, which he plays on the slightest encouragement.

Nothing else was talked of in the evening but the operetta, and the Marquis was in the seventh heaven of delight.

Their Majesties were told of the Marquis’s interesting intention. I could see, across the room, that the Empress knew that I was going to take part, for she looked over toward me, nodding her head and smiling at me.

There was some dancing for an hour, when one of the chamberlains came up and said to me that the Empress would be pleased if I would sing some of my American songs. I was delighted, and went directly into the salle de musique, and when the others had come in, I sat down at the piano and accompanied myself in the few negro songs I knew. I sang “Suwanee River,” “Shoo-fly,” and “Good-by, Johnny, come back to your own chickabiddy.” Then I sang a song of Prince Metternich’s, called, “Bonsoir, Marguerite,” which he accompanied. I finished, of course, with “Beware!” which Charles accompanied.

The Emperor came up to me and asked, “What does chickabiddy mean?”

I answered, “‘Come back soon to your own chickabiddy’ means ‘Reviens bientôt à ta chérie,’” which apparently satisfied him.

Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious.

The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing for him to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, “This is for our chickabiddy!”

Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deep reverence, and we retired to our apartments.

November 30th.

The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)—I should have said, “the very distinguished diplomat”—the same one the Emperor told me yesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me his baronial arm for déjeuner. I can’t imagine why he did it, unless it were to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. He struck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairs of his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt so subdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished to produce on me.

We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly he muttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep to himself), “Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog’s business.” (“La diplomatie est un métier de chien.”)

I ventured to ask, “Is it because one is attached to a post?”

He gave me such a withering look that I wished I had never made this silly remark.

All the same, he unbent a little and, with a dismal twinkle in his eye, his face brightening, and launching into frivolity, said: “The Emperor told me something very funny the other day. (I knew what was coming.) He asked me why I liked salad.” Turning to me he said, “Can you guess the answer?”

I had many ready for him; but I refrained and only said, “No, what was it?”

“Parce qu’elle était ma mère!” he replied, and laughed immoderately, until such a fit of coughing set in that I thought there would not be a button left on him. When he had finished exploding he said, “Did you understand the ‘choke’?”

If I had not understood the “choke,” I understood the choking, and I thought any more jokes like this would be the end of him then and there.

I answered quite seriously, “I think I would understand better, if I knew what sort of salad his Majesty meant.”

He shook his head and said he did not think it made any difference what sort of salad it was. And we became tombstones again.

I could hardly wait till we returned to the salon, I was so impatient to tell the Emperor of the Baron’s latest version.

As his Majesty was near me, talking to some lady during the cercle, I stepped forward so as to attract his attention.

He soon moved toward me, and I, against all the rules of etiquette, was the first to speak.

“Your Majesty,” said I, “I sat next to the Baron at breakfast and was not spared the salad problem.”

“How did he have it this time?” asked the Emperor.

“This time, your Majesty, he had it that you had said he liked salad because it was his mother.”

The Emperor burst out laughing and said, “He is hopeless.”

It would seem as if Fate had chosen the Baron to be the butt of all the plaisanteries to-day.

Later in the afternoon we drove in chars-à-bancs to St. Corneille, a lovely excursion through the woods. The carriages spun along over the smooth roads, the postilions cracked their whips and tooted their horns, the air was cold and deliciously invigorating, and we were the gayest party imaginable. One would have thought that even the worst grumbler would have been put in good spirits by these circumstances; but no! our distinguished diplomat was silent and sullen, resenting all fun and nonsense. No wonder that all conspired together to tease him.

At St. Corneille there are some beautiful ruins of an old abbey and an old Roman camp. When we came to the “Fontaine des Miracles” Mr. Mallet (of the English embassy) pulled out of his pocket a Baedeker and read in a low tone to those about him what was said about the miracles of the fountain. The Marquis de Gallifet, not wishing any amusement to take place without helping it on and adding some touches of his own, thereupon interposed in a stage whisper (evidently intended to be heard by the Baron), “The waters of this fountain are supposed to remove [then raising his voice] barrenness.”

“Baroness who?” asked the diplomat, who was now all alert.

Mr. Mallet, to our amazement (who ever could have imagined him so jocose), said quite gravely, “Probably the wife of the barren fig-tree.”

“Ah!” said the Baron, “I don’t know them,” thus snubbing all the fig-trees.

“A very old family,” said Mallet, “mentioned in the Bible.”

This seemed to stagger our friend, who evidently prided himself on knowing every family worth knowing. The Marquis de Gallifet, seeing his chance, hurried to tell the story of the d’Albe family, which the crestfallen Baron drank in with open mouth and swallowed whole. As the Duke d’Albe was there himself, listening attentively and smiling, the story must have been true! The Marquis de Gallifet said, when Noah was ready to depart in the ark he saw a man swimming for dear life toward the boat, waving something in the air. Noah called out to him:

“Don’t ask to be taken in. We can’t carry any more passengers, we are already too full.”

The man answered, “I don’t want to be taken in; I don’t care for myself; but, pray, save the papers of the family.”

The Baron looked very grave, and turning to the Duke asked, in an extremely solemn tone, “Is this really true?”

“Perfectly,” answered the Duke, without moving a muscle. “The saying, ‘Après moi le déluge,’ originated in our family; but we say, ‘Nous d’abord, et puis le déluge!’”

“How interesting!” said the Baron.

Then Monsieur Dué, not wishing to be outdone, said his family was as old (if not older), having taken the name of Dué from the dove [in Swedish “dué” means dove] which carried the olive-branch to the ark. By this time the poor Baron, utterly staggered and bewildered in presence of such a concourse of ancient nobility, did not know on which leg to stand. How could he and his family ever hold up their heads again?

We returned to Compiègne by St. Périne, where there was a most enchanting view, and drove straight through a long avenue and entered La cour d’honneur. It was almost half-past five when we reached our rooms.

I thought I had had enough of fossils and ruins for one day, from breakfast onward, so when old General Changarnier came to offer me his arm for dinner I said to myself, “This is the climax!”

But, on the contrary (the unexpected always arrives), he was so delightful and genial that my heart was warmed through, which, indeed, it needed, after the ice-chest I had had for déjeuner. He did not try to raise me to his level, but simply let himself down to mine, and talked small talk so youthfully that I felt we were about the same age. He was a charming man.

Monsieur de Laferrière arranged a sort of ball for this evening. There was an unusual flutter, for everything was going to be extra fine, and we put on our prettiest dresses. Programmes with dangling pencils were lavished on us, on which regular dances were set down—quadrilles, waltzes, polkas, and lancers.

The usual cercle was curtailed, in view of the ball.

The chamberlains, to facilitate matters, had arranged the boxes of music for the mechanical piano very methodically on a table, so there should be no mistakes or fumbling with the slides.

The ladies were so agitated, fearing they would not get any partners, that they made very transparent efforts to attract the attention of the gentlemen. One would have thought they had never been to a ball in all their lives. The gentlemen, just as agitated, rushed about to secure the ladies, whom they could have had without the rushing on other evenings. The Empress looked exquisitely beautiful. The Emperor stood in the doorway, smiling at this whirlwind of gaiety and animation. The Prince Imperial danced untiringly with all the ladies.

Flowers were distributed about, and, wonder of wonders! ices were served at intervals, as if it were a real ball. My old general was chivalry itself. He even engaged a partner for the lancers, and skipped about telling everybody he did not know how to dance them, which was unnecessary, as one could see for oneself later.

There are four kinds of people in society:

Those who know the lancers.

Those who don’t know the lancers.

Those who know the lancers and say they don’t.

Those who don’t know the lancers and say they do.

My old and venerable warrior belonged to class number two, and really did not know the lancers, but tripped about pleasantly and let others guide him. When we came to the grande chaîne he was completely intoxicated with his success. Every eye was on him. Every one was occupied with his doings, and his alone. All the ladies were pulling him first one way and then the other, trying to confuse him by getting him into another set, until he found himself quite at the other end of the room, still being pulled about and twirled in every direction, never knowing where he was or when he was going to stop. At last, utterly exhausted and confused, he stopped short and placed himself in the middle of the ballroom, delighted to be the center of all eyes and to make this effective finale. But no one could compare with him when he made his Louis-Quinze reverence; the younger men had to acknowledge that he scored a point there, and he might well be proud of himself. All this made us very gay, and almost boisterous. Never before had the evening finished with such a burst of merriment, and we all retired, agreeing that the ball had been a great success, and that Monsieur de Laferrière could sleep on his laurels as soundly as we intended to sleep on our pillows.

December 1st.

Count Niewekerke offered me his arm for déjeuner this morning. He is a Dutchman (Hollandais sounds better) by birth, but he lives in Paris. As he is the greatest authority on art there, the Emperor has made him Count and Director of the Galerie du Louvre. He is very handsome, tall, and commanding, and has, besides other enviable qualities, the reputation of being the great lady-killer par excellence.

As we stood there together the Empress passed by us. She held up her finger warningly, saying, “Take care! Beware! He is a very dangerous person, un vrai mangeur de coeur!” “I know, your Majesty,” I answered, “and I expect to be brought back on a litter.”

She laughed and passed on.

Monsieur Niewekerke looked pleasantly conscious and flattered as we walked to the dining-room, and I felt as if I was being led to the altar to be sacrificed like poor little Isaac. His English is very cockney, and he got so mixed up with “heart” and “art” that I did not know half the time whether he was talking of the collection of the Louvre Gallery or of his lady victims. He did not hesitate to call my attention to the presence of some of them at the table, which I thought was very kind of him, in case I was unaware of it.

He is as keen about the good things of the table as he is about art; in fact, he is a great epicure. As he thought well of the menu, I will copy it for you:

Consommé en tasses.
    Oeufs au fromage à l’Italienne.
    Petites truites.
    Cailles au riz.
    Côtelettes de veau grillées.
    Viande froide, salade.
    Brioches à la vanille, fruits, dessert, café….

“Well,” said the Empress, as she stopped in front of me after déjeuner, “are you alive?”

“I am, your Majesty, and, strange to say, my heart is intact.”

“Wonderful!” she said, “you are an exception.”

We had the choice between going to a chasse à tir (without the Emperor), and a drive to Pierrefonds.

I had enough of the chasse à tir last year, and I still see in my dreams those poor birds fluttering in their death-agony. Anything better than that!

I preferred Pierrefonds, with its gargoyles and its hard, carved chairs.

I was glad Monsieur de Niewekerke went with us, for he was more interesting and did not go into so many details as Viollet-le-Duc.

The restoration has progressed very much since the last time we were here, though far from being completed yet. In the huge hall Niewekerke told me the statues about the chimney were portraits of the wives of the preux chevaliers of that time.

I thought the frescos of this hall were very crude in color; but Monsieur de Niewekerke said they were excellent copies of the ancient style of decoration.

The castle is such a magnificent ruin one almost wishes that it was not restored.

I would like to see it in summer, not in this season, when one perishes with cold and longs, in spite of its beauty, to be out of it and in a warmer place.

There was a dense fog on the lake and a mist in the forest when we left, and it was dreadfully damp and cold. The postilions took a shorter cut and carried us through La Brévière and St. Jean aux Bois.

I should think both must be charming in summer; but now—ugh!

What was my delight at the Empress’s tea this afternoon to see Auber, my dear old Auber! He had been invited for dinner, and had come with the artists who are to play to-night. He looked so well and young, in spite of his eighty-three years. Every one admires him and loves him. He is the essence of goodness, talent, and modesty. He is writing a new opera. Fancy writing an opera at eighty-three!

I asked what the name of it was. He answered: “‘Le Rêve d’Amour.’ The title is too youthful and the composer is too old. I am making a mistake, but what of that? It is my last!”

I said I hoped he would live many more years and write many more operas.

He shook his head, saying, “Non, non, c’est vraiment mon dernier!”

Monsieur de Lareinty said to the Empress at tea that there was an unusual amount of musical talent among her guests—a real galaxy of stars seldom to be found in amateurs.

The galaxy may have existed—but the stars! The Milky Way seen through the wrong end of an opera glass was nothing to the smallness of their magnitude.

The Empress caught at the idea directly, and the decree went out that there should be a concert tomorrow evening; not mere desultory singing, but singers and songs in regular order.

Auber said he was sorry he could not be there to applaud us. He accompanied us when we went to our rooms, and then he had no idea how to find his own. After having seen him handed over successively to three different valets, we left him to his fate, hoping he would arrive at his destination eventually. When we entered the salon for dinner Auber was already there. If he had not brought his own servant with him, he never would have been in time.

The troop of the Comédie Française played “La Joie fait Peur,” by Musset. The theater was brilliantly lighted; the guests, from the environs and the fine fleur of Compiègne, filled all the boxes. The gentlemen and the officers were in the parquet. The Court and Imperial guests sat with their Majesties in the Imperial box. It was a magnificent sight!

Madame Favart was most touching in her part, and everybody, I think, wept. Coquelin was excellent; but I do not like him so much in his pathetic rôles; his squeaky voice and nasal tones do not belong to the sentimental style. After the play he gave a monologue, which was the funniest thing I ever heard, “Les Obsèques de Madame X——.” The whole house was laughing, and most of all the Emperor. I could see his back shaking, and the diplomatic and apoplectic Baron condescended to explode twice.

The representation lasted till half-past ten. The artists did not change their toilettes, but came into the salon as they were dressed for the play. They were received with great cordiality by their Majesties. The Chamberlain gave them each a little package containing, I suppose, a valuable souvenir from the sovereigns. A special train took them back to Paris.

Auber bid me good-by, saying, “Au revoir until Paris, if you are not too absorbed in these grandeurs to receive a poor, insignificant bourgeois like me.”

“You can always try,” I answered with a laugh. “Bon soir et bon voyage!”

December 2d.

What a day this has been! A storm of rain and hail raged all night, and when I looked out of the window this morning I saw everything deluged in water. The park looked dismal; all the paths were full of puddles; the trees were dripping with rain, and, to judge from the dark skies and threatening clouds, it seemed as if worse was to follow and there might be thunder and lightning. On the programme for to-day there stood chasse à courre; but of course cela tombait dans l’eau, as would have been its natural end anyway in this weather. None of the ladies donned their green costumes, as even one was so sure that the day would be passed indoors.

At déjeuner I was fortunate enough to sit between Prince Metternich and the Marquis de Gallifet. Certainly I could not have two more delightful companions, each so different and yet so entertaining. The Marquis was very aggressive and grumpy; but very amusing.

In French one says, “On a le vin triste,” or “On a le vin gai.” The Marquis has “le déjeuner grincheux (grumpy),” I think.

He began by attacking me on the English language. He said it was utterly absurd and illogical, and though he ought to know it, as he had an English wife, he felt he never could learn it.

“Apropos of to-day’s weather, you say, ‘It never rains but it pours’—au fond qu’est-ce que cela veut dire? ‘Il ne pleut jamais, mais il pleut à verse’; cela n’a pas le sens commun—you might as well say, ‘It never pours but it rains.’”

I had to confess that it did sound senseless, and tried to explain the meaning; but he grumbled, “Why don’t they say what they mean?” He told me he was once traveling in England and put his head out of the carriage window to see something, and some one inside cried, “Look out!” He put his head still farther out, when the person continued to scream, “Look out!” He answered, “I am looking out,” at which a rude hand seized him by the coat-collar and jerked him inside, saying, “Damn it, look in then!”

“How can any one conquer a language as stupid as that?”

I told him I felt humiliated to own such a language, and I ought to apologize for it, though I had not invented it and did not feel responsible for it; but he would not listen to me.

Prince Metternich asked, “What shall we do indoors this awful day?”

I proposed tableaux; but he objected to tableaux.

Then I suggested that one might have a fancy-dress tea-party. At last, after many wild propositions, he said, “Why not charades?”

Of course he had intended charades all the time. He asked the Marquis de Gallifet if he would help us.

“No, I won’t,” answered the Marquis, “but you are welcome to my wife; she loves dressing-up and all that nonsense;” adding, “It is the only thing she can do with success.”

“But we want her to act. Can she?”

“Act!” said the amiable husband. “She can act like the devil!”

By the time we had returned to the salon the Prince had not only found a good word for a charade, but had decided in his resourceful mind all minor details. He thought it would amuse the Prince Imperial to join us, and he asked permission of the Prince’s gouverneur to allow him to do so. The permission was readily given.

Prince Metternich begged Vicomte Walsh to obtain the Empress’s gracious consent to honor the performance with her presence. She was very pleased at the idea of seeing her son’s début as an actor, and promised to come, and even said she would have the tea, usually served in her salon, brought to the little theater.

Prince Metternich gave us a sketch of what he wanted us to do, and gave us general instructions as to our costumes, and bade us meet again in an hour. He would see to everything else: light, heat, scenery, powder, paint, etc., all the accessories, would be ready for us. We ladies were to be pierrettes and dancers of Louis-Quinze period; the gentlemen were to represent the talons rouges, and to have red cloth pasted on the heels of their low shoes. We could paint our faces and powder our hair after our own ideas. “But, ladies, above all, do not be late,” were the parting words of the Prince.

We followed his instructions as well as we could, and reappeared in the theater to hear the now fully matured plans of our impresario.

The Empress was seated before we were ready, Prince Metternich was so long painting the Prince Imperial. We could hear her saying, “Allons! Allons!” clapping her hands in her eagerness for us to commence.

The word was PANTALON.

The first syllable, PAN, was represented by the Prince Imperial as a statue of Pan.

His body was visible to the waist above a pedestal. Over his flesh-colored undershirt he wore a wreath of green leaves across his shoulders, and his head was also covered with a wreath. He held the traditional flute before his mouth. No one could have recognized the delicate features of the Prince Imperial, as Prince Metternich had painted his lips very large and very red, and had added a fantastic mustache. His eyebrows (black as ink) had an upward tilt, in true Mephistophelian style.

It was a sylvan scene. Prince Metternich had ordered from the greenhouse some orange and other trees to be moved on to the stage, which made a very pretty effect.

The Princess Metternich, in a quaint costume, was the Harlequine to her husband’s Harlequin. They made a very funny love scene, because, being man and wife, they could make all their kissing real, and so ridiculously loud, that one could hear it all over the theater. Every one laughed till they cried, and particularly as Pan was rolling his eyes about in a very comical manner.

Her other lover (Pierrot) came in unawares; but she had time to throw a shawl over Harlequin, who put himself on all fours, thus making a bench, on which she demurely sat down. In order to throw dust in Pierrot’s eyes, she took from her basket a hammer and some nuts and began cracking them (to the audience’s and Pan’s horror) on poor Harlequin’s head, eating them with great sang-froid.

Prince Metternich had prudently provided a wooden bowl, with which he covered his head so that his ambassadorial skull should be spared. Pan smiled a diabolical smile, and had, of course, a great success.

TALON was the next syllable. This was a sort of pantomime. The actors were grouped like a picture of Watteau. Count Pourtales was a dancing-master and was really so witty, graceful, and took such artistic attitudes that he was a revelation to every one. Prince Metternich (his bosom friend) exclaimed:

“Who would ever have thought it? How talent conceals itself!”

The whole word PANTALON was a combination of Columbines, Harlequins, and Louis-Quinze cavaliers dancing in a circle, and all talking nonsense at once.

The statue of Pan in knickerbockers, his wreaths still on his head and shoulders, joined in the dance.

The Empress led the vociferous applause, and Prince Metternich came forward on the stage and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are deeply flattered at your approval. There will be a second performance before his Majesty, the Emperor of the French, and I hope you will accord us your patronage.”

There was great laughter at this.

Count Pourtales took me in to dinner. We were very glad to be neighbors. He was resting on his laurels, and I wanted to rest before getting mine (if I got any) this evening. We exchanged views on nervousness. He said he had been dreadfully nervous in the afternoon. I told him I was always nervous when I had to sing, and when I sang the first song I was hot and cold all over.

“Like Alboni,” he said; “she has had to give up singing in opera, she had such stage-frights.”

We thanked each other after finishing dinner for having been kind enough to have let the other alone.

The rain was still pouring in torrents when we returned to the salon. In spite of the many voices, we could still hear it pattering against the windows of the terrace. It was lucky there were some stars among us, as Monsieur de Lareinty had said, otherwise we would have seen none to-night.

At ten o’clock the “galaxy” went into the salle de musique, and the planets began to shine. First came Baroness Gourgaud, who attacked the “Mi-bémol Polonaise,” of Chopin. Their Majesties settled themselves in their chairs with a look of heavenly resignation on their faces, which was reflected on those of most of the guests.

However, she played beautifully, more like an artiste than an amateur. The Empress went forward to her, holding out her hand, which the Baroness, bowing to the ground, kissed gratefully, feeling that she had covered herself with glory, as she really had.

Then Monsieur de V—— (our basso) sang “O Marguerite,” from Faust, without the slightest voice, but with excellent intentions. Next, having the music under his hand, he continued and sang “Braga’s Serenade,” which he thought was more suited to his voice, though it is written, as you know, for a soprano. He sang the girl’s part in a mysterious, husky, and sepulchral voice, and the angel’s part weaker and feebler than any angel ever dreamed of.

I looked at the beautiful ceiling painted by Girodet, and to keep myself from going to sleep counted the legs of the angels, and tried to calculate how many legs belonged to each. Monsieur de V—— said his idea was to make the contrast very strong between the girl and the angel; he certainly succeeded!

Monsieur Dué played some of what he calls his “Sketches.” “Il est si doué (gifted),” exclaimed Princess Metternich.

Every one was pleased; so was he.

I sang “Le Rossignol,” of Alabieff, in which is the cadenza Auber wrote for me. Princess Metternich played the accompaniment.

Madame C—— (our contralto) sang “Lascia che pianga,” which suited her beautiful voice better than it did the audience’s taste. Then she sang “Ah! Mon Fils,” of “Le Prophète,” with great effect, accompanying herself.

But this was not the kind of music to please our audience.

Count E—— (our tenor) was asked to add his Milky Way tenor to the rest of the planets, but begged to be excused on the plea of a sore throat. No one questioned this, and he was allowed to remain unheard.

Later I sang “Oh! that We Two were Maying,” by Gounod, a much too serious song; but the Empress said she thought it was the most beautiful one she had ever heard. I think so, too. I also sang one of Massenet’s, “Poème d’Avril.” They asked for “Beware!” which I sang. The Emperor came up to me (each time he gets up from his chair every one gets up and stands until he sits down again), and said, “Won’t you sing the song about the shoe?”

What did he mean? I had no idea.

“The one you sang the other night,” said the Emperor.

What do you think he meant?

Well, he meant “Shoo-fly!” I sang it, as he desired. I don’t believe he knows yet what its true meaning is. There is an end to all things, and our concert came to an end at last. Their Majesties, with gracious smiles and repeated thanks, retired, the Milky Way faded from view, and the planets went to bed.

I know I deserved mine, and I appreciated it when I got it.

December 3d.

The chasse à courre is generally fixed for the last day of the série; but their Majesties, at the suggestion of the thoughtful Vicomte Walsh, ordered it to be changed to this afternoon, in order that the operetta should arrive at a riper stage of perfection. Would it ever be near enough? We had never had a moment yet when we could rehearse all together. Vicomte de V——’s costume had not come from Paris, and he was bordering on brain-fever, in a state of expectancy and impatience. Neither he nor d’Espeuilles knew their songs, and the chorus needed much drilling. The Princess Metternich put her salon at the Marquis’s disposal, and he spent half his time teaching some of his pupils.

The days of the chasse à courre the gentlemen appear in red coats and the ladies in green-cloth dresses. Those that had le bouton put it in their buttonhole. You may be sure I wore mine!

All the carriages, the horses, and grooms were before the terrace at two o’clock, and after the usual delay we drove off to the forest. Their Majesties and the Prince Imperial were on horseback. The Duchess de Sesto invited me to drive with her, and in the same char-à-banc with us were Baronne de la Poeze, Comtesse Pourtales, and four or five others. The Duchess looked very dainty, wrapped in her chinchilla furs. I had had so little time to learn the talking part of my rôle that I took it with me in the carriage, hoping to be able to study it. They all sympathized with me, as they knew the operetta was to be given to-morrow evening.

The roads were full of mud; but we splashed through them regardless of such minor details as dirt Fortunately it did not rain, and the sun made a few spasmodic efforts to come out, but it was far from being the ideal day of last year.

This chasse varies but little, and I described my first acquaintance with it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repetition of details. I fancy the route we took was the same; but I am not quite sure, for all the roads and avenues resemble one another.

Once, as we halted at an étoile, we saw a beautiful stag bound past us, full of life and strength, with enormous horns (they said it was a dix cors). Every one in the carriage stood up in their excitement to look after it. How I wished he would escape and live his free and happy life in the forest. I hate this chasse; I hate to write about it; I hate to be present at it. It is all so pitiful and painful to me! How can any one find pleasure in such cruel sport?

To kill a living creature, to take the life of an animal that has done you no harm, seems horrible to me. But I will say no more on this subject. It always puts me in a bad temper, and makes me disgusted with my fellow-creatures.

We followed the other part of the cavalcade and arrived at the carrefour in time to see the death of one stag. The others saw it, but I was occupied with my manuscript.

There were two stags taken, two beautiful creatures that ought to have lived.

It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerful fire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and I was heartily glad when we turned homeward.

Six o’clock had just struck when we drove up to the front of the Grand Escalier, and I was able to get a little rest before dressing for dinner.

All the ladies who owned diamond crescents, or any crescent suggestive of Diana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescent on her lovely hair.

The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for there were some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was the Count de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but I was able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to the Marquis’s incessant explanations.

There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the curée. It is a pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to show a good deal of talent in their playing le piano méchanique, and they can play almost in time.

The curée was at ten o’clock. The long gallery was soon alive with an eager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyard was filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiègne; the piqueurs waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the gardes blew their long cors de chasse, and it was just like last year, except that on this occasion there were two stags—therefore, two sets of entrails to be devoured.

Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboring châteaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off to the station, and the privileged guests retired to their apartments.

December 4th.

At ten o’clock this morning I was surprised at hearing a timid knock at my salon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d’Aoust. He begged my pardon for disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something he considered of great importance.

He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he had not slept all night. Would I be willing to help Count d’E—— in our duet, and sing a part of his music? Otherwise, he was sure it would never go.

I told him it would not be easy to sing tenor; but I would see at the rehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him, my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that all would go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession of nightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, having forgotten both words and music.

He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since I don’t know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he had ordered; but he saw that there would not be space for the eight performers (there are two scenes where we are all on the stage at once). Accordingly, he had ordered the carpenters to change it.

I ate my déjeuner sandwiched between the tenor and the basso. We rehearsed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.

The Empress went directly to the Marquis after déjeuner and said, “We are looking forward to your operetta to-night with real pleasure, and we are sure that it will be a great success.” The Marquis was radiant.

When we met later in the theater for our first and only rehearsal we were delighted to find there the grand piano from the salle de musique. The curtain rose on a very pretty garden scene, with trees on either side, green linen on the floor representing grass, a village with a church-steeple in the background, and for stage properties a garden bench and a vase placed just before the footlights, so that it would not interfere with our movements, but would show us where not to fall off.

The Marquis was, of course, at the piano, and Prince Metternich, as prompter, squeezed into a prompter’s box, looking wretchedly uncomfortable. We commenced the rehearsal, which, on the whole, went off better than we expected.

The basso is the first to appear. He sings a melancholy song, in which he makes known his love for the humble village maiden. His voice gets more dismal and lower as he becomes despondent, and higher and more buoyant as his hopes rise. At the end, when he sings “Elle sera à moi,” his voice, though very husky, was almost musical. Then I, as the village maiden, enter with a basket, suggestive of butter and eggs, and sing a sentimental ditty telling of my love for the friend of the lord. The music of this is mediocre beyond words. The Marquis tries to show, by a few high soprano notes, how high my wildest flights of aspirations fly before I could ever reach the subject of my love. “Mes tourments” and “le doux plaisir d’aimer” get so mixed that I don’t know myself what I am singing about.

The lady of the manor hears my lament, and, believing me to be in love with her husband, berates me in a dramatic duet. The friend and adviser now appears, and we get through an incomprehensible trio. He cannot convince her (the lady) of the innocence of her husband. She insists upon thinking him a traitor, leaves us in a fury, and we have the floor to ourselves when we sing the famous duet on account of which the Marquis had qualms this morning. In it there is a minor phrase which is quite intricate, and I saw that unless I came to d’E——’s rescue he could never manage it.

The lord and the lady reappear, while the friend and I retire in the background and lean up against the village steeple and whisper. The lady is violent and the lord is indifferent. The music sounds like an everlasting grumble, because her voice is contralto and his is bass. The village maiden is called to the front, and denies everything she has been accused of. The husband makes amends in a phrase miles too high for his voice. The friend takes all the blame on his black-velvet shoulders, and says he has loved the maiden all along. The maiden is overcome with emotion and faints for joy.

The final quartette is a sad affair, musically speaking, constructed on the Marquis’s own ideas of thoroughbass. All the singers start on the same plane, the soprano soars heavenward, the contralto and the bass grovel in their deepest notes, while the tenor, who ought to fill up the gap, stands counting the measures on his fingers, his eyes glued to the prompter, until he joins me and we soar together.

To use a metaphor, one might say that the contralto and bass were in the lower regions, the soprano floating in heaven, the tenor groping about on earth for his note; then we all meet on the same place we started from, which is the signal for the chorus to unite their forces with ours.

The Marquis was dreadfully put out with me because I refused to faint on the stage (in the text it says Rosette tombe évanouie). He said nothing was easier. I had only to put my arms out to break the fall and—fall. He thought that with a little practice between the afternoon and the evening I should be able to do it.

I could see myself covered with bruises tumbling about over sofas and chairs, and I could see the bewilderment of any one coming into my room while I was practising this part of my rôle.

I said, “I absolutely refuse to risk my neck.” He thought it was very selfish of me. One would have thought that the whole success of the operetta depended on my fainting. He said he could show me how to fall without hurting myself, and in trying to do so he tripped over the vase and bumped his head against the garden bench. Fortunately he did not damage himself, but the argument ended then and there.

At half-past four my maid came to the theater to tell me that the Empress expected me to tea. I had thought she would, as she had promised the answers to those questions; and so it was. As soon as I appeared (I had had time to change my dress) the Empress called me to her and said:

“Here are the answers to your American soul-probing questions! These are mine (giving me hers) and here are the Emperor’s. He was very pleased to write them, as it was you who asked him; besides, I think they amused him. He spent a long time pondering over each answer. You see,” she added, with her lovely smile, “nous vous aimons bien.”

I was very glad to have the answers. I copy them for you.

A quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? À la gratitude.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Tacite.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Chercher la solution de problèmes insolubles.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Mon petit fils.

Quelles personnes de l’histoire détestez-vous le plus? Le Connétable
    de Bourbon.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d’indulgence? Pour celles dont
    je profite.

Napoléon Louis

A quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? Au dévouement.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Calderon, Byron, Shakespeare.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire le bien.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Ce que je suis.

Quelles personnes de l’histoire détestez-vous le plus? Lopez.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d’indulgence? Pour celles que la passion excuse.

Eugénie

I add the answers of Prosper Mérimée:

À quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? La persévérance.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Pr. Mérimée.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire des châteaux en Espagne.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Napoléon III.

Quelles personnes de l’histoire détestez-vous le plus? Mazarin.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d’indulgence? La gourmandise.

Prosper Mérimée

I think the Emperor’s are very clever.

“And the operetta?” inquired the Empress.

“I hope your Majesties will be indulgent,” I replied.

Monsieur de Laferrière was next to me at dinner. He was as much interested in the operetta as other people seemed to be. I took advantage of his being my neighbor to ask him to manage it so that we could leave the salon before the cercle commenced, as we had to dress, and if any of us were late I dared not think what the effect would be on the nervous Marquis.

The Emperor raised his glass during dinner, though I sat very far down the table. I suppose he wanted to inspire me with hope and courage.

Monsieur de Laferrière arranged everything for us most amiably. We rushed off to our rooms to dress. I, for one, was not long over my toilette, and, followed by my maid, hurried through the long corridors to the theater.

We were all there except Monsieur de V——, who was no doubt still pottering over his raiment. The artist he had ordered from Paris was already there, brush in hand, ready to paint us. The result was very satisfactory. When we looked at ourselves in the glass we wondered why one should not be beautiful every day with so simple an art.

We were rather taken back when Monsieur d’Espeuilles appeared in a wig and a false mustache; but he hastened to say there was nothing like being disguised to put one at one’s ease. The gentlemen of the chorus, not willing to go to any extra expense, had culottes courtes and white stockings; the ladies had tried to be more in harmony, but they thought that with rakes, spades, and basket they had quite enough couleur locale.

The chamberlain came to ask whether their Majesties should come now. Prince Metternich answered that we were waiting for them, A tedious delay occurred before the audience had settled into their places in accordance with their rank, to the great annoyance of Prince Metternich, shut up in the small prompter’s box, and the Marquis d’Aoust, fidgeting at the piano, and driving us almost to distraction by his repeated questions and exhortations: “Do you think you know your part? Don’t forget to”—etc.

At last! at last! No retreating now, Coûte que coûte! we must take in the plank and embark on our shaky craft.

The Marquis attacked the overture by playing some vigorous arpeggios and pompous chords. The curtains were drawn aside and the lord of the manor entered. After his monologue, which he did very well, he hesitated a moment. This agitated the Marquis to such a degree that he stood up and waved his hand as a signal to him to commence his song, and gave him the note on the piano. Monsieur de V—— started in all right and sang his song with due sentiment, and very well. I even think as far back as the sixth row of seats they were conscious that he was singing. His acting and gestures were faultless. All Frenchmen can act.

I thought, when I came in, the public was chilly, and I felt cold shivers running down my back. My courage was oozing out of me, and when the lord of the manor said to me, “Rosette, que fais-tu ici?” and I had to answer, “Ce que je fais, Monsieur; mais vous voyez bien, je ne fais rien,” I thought I should die of fright and collapse on the spot. However, I pulled myself together and began my silly little song.

The moment I began to sing I felt at ease, and I flatter myself I gave a certain glaze to the emptiness of the music. Madame Conneau sang her dramatic aria beautifully, and created quite a furore. I only wish the music had been more worthy of her. The love duet between the friend and myself was, much to my surprise, a great success. It was encored, and we sang it again.

When we came to the minor passage (the stumbling-block) the Marquis, who was perspiring at every pore in his dread that I should not hit the right note, pounded it on the piano loud enough to be heard all over the theater. I gave him a withering look, which he pretended not to see. Perhaps he did not, for his attention, like mine, was startled by seeing the false mustache of Monsieur d’Espeuilles ungluing and threatening to drop into his mouth. The Marquis began wagging his head and making frantic signs. Monsieur d’Espeuilles was horribly confused, and I feared for the success of our da capo; but he patted the now limp offender back on his lip, and we continued the duet. During the applause the Marquis took the occasion to wipe the perspiration from his bald head.

In spite of our qualms the final quartette was not so bad after all. When it was time for me to come down from my upward flight in order to help the tenor, the Marquis again waved his right hand in the air to attract my attention, while he thundered a tremolo with his left, to keep the accompaniment going until he was sure that everything was right. The chorus came on in due order, and flourished their rakes and spades as though they were waving flags, in participation of the joy and gladness of the reconciliation. There was one moment of genuine hilarity, when the little fox-terrier belonging to the Empress’s niece rushed on to the stage to join his mistress, who, with great sang-froid, picked him up and went on singing, to the immense amusement of the audience.

It was suffocatingly hot in the little theater, and we were glad to think that we had arrived at the end of our perilous journey. The red on our cheeks was getting paler; the powder was becoming paste; the black on the eyebrowless actors began to run down their cheeks; Monsieur d’Espeuilles’s wig and mustache were all on one side.

All these details mattered little, now that the end had come, and the performance had concluded with great éclat.

The happy Marquis (though I think he aged ten years that hour at the piano) was radiant with his success. Every emotion had swept over him: ambition, vanity, hope, pride, forbearance, patience, long-suffering.

The curtain fell amid great applause, as spontaneous as it was persistent and, I hope, genuine.

We stayed in our costumes for the tea in the Emperor’s salon.

Both their Majesties complimented the Marquis, and thanked us all separately for the pleasure they had had and the trouble we had given ourselves. The Emperor said to me, “Vous vous êtes surpassée ce soir.” I courtesied and asked him what he thought of the music.

He hesitated before answering. “I don’t know much about music; but it seems to me, as Rossini said of the music of Wagner: ‘Il y a de jolis moments, mais de mauvais quarts d’heures!’ All the same, it was very pretty.”

Every one praised the Marquis to the skies, and he was really in the seventh heaven of delight.

I am only afraid his head will be turned, and that he will write another chef-d’oeuvre.

I was glad when their Majesties bade us good night, for I was completely exhausted.

PARIS, December 5th.

It seems nice, all the same, to be at home again. We arrived in Paris at six o’clock, and at half-past seven I was in my bed, completely worn out. However, I must tell you how our visit ended the day before yesterday. Was it only the day before yesterday? It seems months ago. At déjeuner the Princess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and the Empress’s brother-in-law, Duke d’Albe, gave me his avant-le-déluge arm, and put me on the left of his Majesty.

I thought the Emperor looked tired and ill, and I noticed he frequently put his hand on his back, as if he was in pain. The Princess Metternich engrossed the Emperor’s attention. She is so witty and lively that every one must listen when she talks. All the same, the Emperor talked with me a good deal, and thanked me for having done so much to amuse them. Never would they forget the pleasure they had had.

When we went up to our rooms to put on our cloaks there was no pretentious majordomo demanding his fee, and our particular valet looked sad, and did not meet my eye when I tried to catch his to give a smile of adieu, and persistently fixed his gaze on something at the other end of the corridor. I rather liked the old way better, as one felt that in a measure one had made some little compensation for all the delightful days spent there.

I asked my maid how the servants felt about this change. She said that in their salle à manger almost all the maids and valets belonging to the guests gave pourboires.

After we had made our adieux, and taken our seats in the different carriages, their Majesties came out on the balcony to see us depart. They waved their hands in farewell as we drove off.

The journey back to Paris was a silent one. Every one was occupied with his own thoughts. Prince Metternich sat in a corner talking with the impervious diplomat; I wondered if he were relating the salad’s complicated relationships. We all bade one another good-by, adding, with assumed enthusiasm, that we hoped to meet soon again, when perhaps we were rejoicing in the thought that we would not do so for a long time to come.

What insincere creatures we are!

May, 1870.

We were invited to a picnic at Grand Trianon, given by the Emperor and Empress for the Archduke of Austria.

The rendezvous was to be at St. Cloud, and we were asked to be there at four o’clock. On arriving we found the Metternichs, Édouard Delesert, Duperré, and Count Dehm, the Austrian Secretary. Their Majesties and the Prince Imperial joined us when we were all assembled. We then mounted the two char-à-bancs which were waiting for us in front of the chateau, with their postilions and four horses; the piqueurs, in their saddles, were all ready to precede us. The Emperor, Empress, the Prince Imperial, Princess Metternich, and the Archduke were in the first carriage; the rest of us were in the second—about fourteen people in all. We drove through the lovely forest of Marly, the long, tiresome avenues of Versailles, and through many roads known probably only to the postilions, and perhaps used only on rare occasions such as this royal excursion, for they were in such a bad condition, ruts and stones everywhere, that our heads and shoulders were bumping continually against our neighbors’. Finally we reached Petit Trianon, where we left the carriages and servants, who were ordered to meet us at Grand Trianon later, bringing our extra wraps with them. The air was deliciously balmy and warm, and was filled with the perfume of lilacs and acacias.

We wandered through the park, admiring the skill of the artist who had laid it out so cleverly, just like Petit Val. This is not surprising, as it was the same person who planned them both. All the surroundings recall the charming life which Marie Antoinette must have lived in the midst of this pastoral simplicity.

I wondered if the same thought passed through the Empress’s mind which passed through mine. Could history ever repeat this unfortunate queen’s horrible fate? We continued our walk to Grand Trianon, and found the table spread for our dinner under the wide charmille, near the lake. The Princess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and I on his left.

The Emperor was in excellent spirits, and bandied repartees with Monsieur Delesert, who surpassed himself in wit, and told many and sometimes rather risky stories, which made every one laugh. The Prince Imperial could hardly wait till the end of the dinner, he was so impatient to get to the rowboat which was ready waiting for him on the lake. The Empress was quite nervous, and stood on the edge of the lake all the time he was on the water, calling to him, “Prends garde, Louis!” “Ne te penches pas, Louis!” and many other such counsels like any other anxious mother, and she never took her eyes from the little boat which was zigzagging about under the hands of the youthful prince.

It was after nine o’clock when we started to return to St. Cloud by another route. The piqueur, finding the gate locked through which we had to pass, knocked on the door of the lodge-keeper, who, awakened from his slumbers, appeared in a déshabillé more than hasty, intending to administer a savon (scolding) to such tardy comers. But on hearing from the piqueur that the monarch of all he surveyed was waiting in the carriage, he flew to open the gate, disclosing his scanty night-attire. The funniest part of it was that, as soon as he realized the situation, he thought it his duty to show his patriotism, so he stood on the steps of his lodge and, as we passed through the gate, he chanted a hoarse and sleepy! “Vive l’Empereur!” and waved his smoking candle.

The Emperor was convulsed with laughter. I, who sat behind him, could see his shoulders shaking.

The ball of the plébiscite was the most splendid thing I ever saw. The architects and decorators had outdone themselves. The gardens of the Tuileries beyond the fountain had been hedged in by orange-trees, and other large trees moved there in their tubs. The whole parterre of flowers was festooned with lanterns and little colored lamps, making this fairy scene as bright as day. The ballroom and adjoining salons, of which the windows had been removed as well as the iron railing outside of them, led on to a large platform which occupied the space of six such windows or doors; these gave out into two colossal staircases which descended into the garden. It was such a beautiful night, so warm that we ladies could walk about in our ball-dresses without any extra wraps; there were about six thousand people invited, they said. It seemed as if all Paris was there.

After the quadrille d’honneur their Majesties circulated freely about. Every one was eager to offer congratulations to the Emperor. Was it not the greatest triumph of his reign to have the unanimous vote of all France—this overwhelming proof of his popularity? As he stood there smiling, with a gracious acknowledgment of the many compliments, he looked radiantly happy to thus receive the homage of his country. As the Emperor passed near me I added my congratulations, to which he replied, “Merci, je suis bien heureux.”

Their Majesties stood on the dais with the members of the Imperial family, and after watching the dance they all went in to the Pavillon de Flore, where supper was served for the notabilities.

For the others there was arranged a supper in the theater; an orchestra on the stage played all the time; the balconies were festooned with flowers and filled with guests; there were supper-tables in the parquet and in the largest loges, and plants and shrubs placed in every available spot.

LONDON, June, 1870.

DEAR M.,—What will you think of your dissipated daughter? Do you not think that she is insatiable? I am sure that you will say that I ought to be contented after the long season of gaiety and excitement in Paris, and settle down in lovely Petit Val, where the lilacs and the violets call one with scented voices.

However, we decided to go to London.

Did I write to you of our breakfast at Armenonville? After Lord Lyons’s ball, which lasted until six o’clock in the morning, Prince Metternich and several others thought that it would be a good idea to go home, change our ball-dresses for morning-dress, and go out to the Bois for our morning coffee. We did it.

I confess that it was a crazy thing to do after dancing all night; but the beautiful May morning, the glorious sunshine, and our spirits inspired us to carry out this wild whim, much to the disgust of our sleepy coachmen. This excursion was not a success; we were all tired and longed for bed. One cannot be amusing or en train at seven o’clock in the morning. And as for the family, when we returned home all the comment they made was, “What fools!” They did not see any fun in it; neither did we, to tell the truth.

The Rothschilds, Lord Lyons, and Prince and Princess Metternich gave us what must have been very powerful letters, for we had hardly been in London more than a few days before we knew every one worth knowing, and all doors worth opening were opened to us, and I found myself what one calls lancée.

We took rooms in Park Street; that is, we had the two stories of the house. The landlady lived downstairs, and gave us our meals when we were at home. As soon as we got settled we left our cards and letters of introduction.

Invitation followed invitation in the most bewildering manner, sometimes several for the same day.

I could not begin to tell you all that we have already done. Writing letters seems to be the one thing which I have no time for. It is a perpetual push and rush from morning till night.

Our first dinner was at Baron and Baroness Rothschilds’, where the Prince and Princess of Wales and a great many distinguished people were invited. I sat next to a Mr. Osbourne—everybody called him Dick. He told me that he was the most dined-out and tired-out man in London, and that he had not eaten at home for six months.

I had not seen their Royal Highnesses since their visit to Paris during the Exposition. They said that they remembered me; but I cannot think it possible that they can have such wonderful memories.

I never saw such a splendid collection of orchids as there was on the table, and each lady had a bouquet of orchids and roses by her plate.

I was asked to sing, and was delighted to do it. The Rothschilds’ ballroom was a glorious place in which to make a debut.

Michael Costa, the well-known musician, came after dinner and accompanied me in the “Cavatina” from “Rigoletto,” and the waltz from the “Pardon de Ploërmel.”

Lady Sherbourne, a charming lady whom I fell in love with at first sight, sang also. She has a beautiful, rich contralto voice, and sang with a great deal of expression an English song called, “Out on the rocks when the tide is low.”

In your last letter you wrote, “I am afraid that you are on the way to become conceited.” I am afraid myself I am, still I cannot resist telling you, this once, that my audience was very enthusiastic and Mr. Costa said —well, I won’t tell you what he said; it might sound conceited. The last thing I sang was “Beware!” which was immensely appreciated.

The Prince of Wales said: “That is a bewitching song. I never heard it before. Who composed it?”

I told him that it was written for me by my husband, and Longfellow had written the words.

The Princess, before leaving, said, “I cannot tell you how much pleasure you have given us this evening; we hope to see you often while you are in London.” She is very beautiful, even handsomer than when I saw her last. Baroness Rothschild kissed me, and thanked me for having sung for her.

Call me vain and conceited if you will, my head is turned, and there is nothing more to be said about it!

A luncheon at “Caroline, Duchess of Montrose’s,” at two o’clock upset me for the whole day. I am not accustomed to those big déjeuners-dinatoires. I was sleepy and felt good for nothing the rest of the day; and when we dined at Lady Molesworth’s that evening, “to meet their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales,” and wanted to be extra up-to-the-mark, I felt just the contrary. However, after dinner the Prince of Wales asked me to sing, and I did not refuse, and even sang most of the evening. There was a charming Baron Hochschild, the Swedish Minister, who sang delightfully. He is a thorough musician, and accompanied himself perfectly with all the aplomb of an artist. He has a deep, rich barytone, and his répertoire consisted of all the well-known old Italian songs. Lady Molesworth is a beautiful old lady, who must have been a great beauty in her youth. She wears curls just like yours, dear mama, which made me love her. I met here Arthur Sullivan; he was full of compliments.

The next day we were invited to a matinée musicale at Lady Dudley’s, preceded by a luncheon, which Mr. Osbourne called “a snare,” because, he said, I could not refuse to sing. I did not want to refuse, either. The piano was in the beautiful picture-gallery, all full of Greuze’s pictures bought from the Vatican; it has the most wonderful acoustics, and the voice sounded splendidly in it. Lady Dudley is a celebrated beauty. Lord Dudley—before he succeeded to the title—was Lord Ward. The Duke and Duchess of Sutherland asked us to dine. This was a very imposing affair; the Duke of Cambridge was at the dinner as the grosse pièce, and there were many diplomats. After dinner several artists came from Covent Garden, and among them Madame Patti, who sang the “Cavatina” of “Lucia,” with flute accompaniment, and how beautifully!

When I was introduced to her I said, “The first time I heard you sing was years ago when I was a little girl and you were in short dresses.”

“In Rochester,” I replied. “I shall never forget how exquisitely you sang ‘Ah! non giunge’ and ‘Ernani.’”

“Yes, I remember quite well. I was singing in concerts with Ole Bull; but that was a long time ago.”

“It was indeed,” I said; “but I have never forgotten your voice, nor a lovely song you sang which I have never heard since, called ‘Happy Birdling of the Forest.’ And your trill! Just like the bird itself!”

We became quite good friends, and she made me promise to come to see her. She is charming. Every one was most enthusiastic. Some one said she gets a thousand pounds for an evening. The Marquis de Caux (her husband) looked rather out of place. It seemed queer to see him again, not as the brilliant Marquis of the Tuileries (the “beau” par excellence), but simply as the husband of Patti. He did not find a chance to speak to me.

Some days later Lady Anglesey gave a luncheon for me. On the invitations were, “To meet Mrs. Moulton.” I read between the lines: to hear Mrs. Moulton sing. They always put on their invitations, “To meet” so and so.

Mr. Quimby said to me, “I liked you from the first moment I saw you, but I had no idea you were going to be such a beast.” “Beast!” I echoed. “That is not very complimentary.” “A lion is a beast, isn’t it?” he jokingly replied.

“Am I going to be a lion? I did not know it.”

“Well, you are a lioness, which is better.”

He is considered the wit of London, and this is a specimen of his wit. What do you think?

At the luncheon there were Jacques Blumenthal, the famous pianist and composer, and Arthur Sullivan, who asked me to sing in his little operetta, which some amateurs are rehearsing for a soirée at Lady Harrington’s; and on my acceptance he brought the music for me to try over with him the next morning. The soirée was to be three days later. The music is nothing remarkable; in fact, the whole thing (it is called “The Prodigal Son”) is not worthy of him. I have not met any of my fellow-performers yet. Forgive this jerky letter; I have been interrupted a thousand times. Charles thinks it is time to go back to Paris; but we have just received an invitation from Baron Alfred Rothschild to spend Ascot week—a séjour de sept jours—with a party at a house he has hired for the race-week there, and I could not resist.

ASCOT, LONDON, June, 1870.

DEAR M.,—Viscount Sydney thought that we ought to ask for an audience of the Princess of Wales, and we did it. The audience was accorded, and we presented ourselves at the appointed hour and were received by the lady of honor and shown into the beautifully arranged drawing-room. The Princess was most gracious; she certainly is the loveliest lady I have ever seen. I told her we were going to Ascot for the week, and she said that they were also going there and hoped they would see us. Our interview came to an end, as such interviews do, without anything very interesting happening, and, finally, we backed ourselves out of the royal presence.

That evening there was a ball at Lady Waldegrave’s, who lives at Strawberry Hill, a mile or so out of London. Baron Alfred Rothschild offered to take us out there in his coach and-four. We dined first with the Baron Meyer Rothschild, and afterward drove out to Strawberry Hill. It is the most beautiful place you can imagine. I never saw anything so grand as the cedar-trees.

The cotillon lasted very late; the Duke of Saxe-Weimar talked a long time with me, mostly about music. He is very musical, and knows Liszt intimately, and told me a quantity of anecdotes about him. He was interested in what I told him about Liszt’s going to the Conservatoire with Auber and me, and about the “Tannhäuser” overture incident. It was six o’clock when we drove back to London. We saw the milk-carts on their morning rounds and the street-sweepers at work. One felt ashamed of oneself at being in ball-dress and jewels at this early hour, galloping through the streets in a fine carriage, making such a dreadful contrast to the poor working-people.

I had great fun at Lady Harrington’s musical soirée, where Arthur Sullivan’s “Prodigal Son” was to be sung.

We had been dining at Lady Londonderry’s, and arrived rather late at Lady Harrington’s. The whole staircase was crowded with people, and even down in the hall it was so full of ladies and gentlemen that there was no question of moving about. However, I made my way as far as the stairs, every one wondering at my audacity, and I murmured gently:

“May I pass?” There was a chorus of “Quite impossible!” “Perfectly useless!” and other such discouraging remarks. I said to a gentleman who sat stolidly on his step:

“Do you think I could send word to Mr. Sullivan that the Prodigal Son’s mother cannot get to him?”

“What do you mean?” said he. “Are you—”

“Yes, I am; and if you don’t let me pass you won’t have any music.”

You should have seen them jump up and make a pathway for me. I marched through it like the children of Israel through the Red Sea. I was enchanted to have my little fun. I joined the other performers, and the mother of the Prodigal Son was received with open arms. The Prodigal Son’s father was pathos itself, and we rejoiced together over our weak tenor-boy. The only fatted calves that were to be seen belonged to the fat flunkeys.

We had a beautiful time at Ascot. Alfred Rothschild was an excellent host. Among the other guests were the Archibald Campbells, the Hochschilds, Mr. Osbourne, the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle, Hon. and Mrs. Stoner, one of the ladies of the Queen, Mr. Mitford, and others. Lady Campbell had only one dress with her (they must be very poor!); it was a black velvet (fancy, in the middle of summer!). She wore it high-necked for the races in the daytime and low-necked in the evening. We drove to Ascot every day at one o’clock. We had seats in the Queen’s stand, and after seeing one race we went to lunch with Mr. Delane, who had open table for one hundred people every day. Mr. Delane belongs to the Times newspaper.

Baron Rothschild had carte-blanche to bring any guest, or as many as he liked. The Prince of Wales always lunched there, and any one that was of importance was sure to be present. I made many new acquaintances, and you may imagine how I enjoyed this glimpse of a world so entirely unknown to me. The races at Longchamps, Auteuil, and Chantilly I had seen many times; but I never saw anything like this exciting and bewildering scene.

The Prince of Wales gave a ball at Cooper’s Hill (the house they had hired for the Ascot week), which was very charming and sans façon. I danced the cotillon with Baron Rothschild and a waltz with the Prince of Wales. The supper, which we had in the palm-garden, was an elaborate affair. We drove home in the early morning, just as the day was breaking.

The next day we lunched first at the barracks, and then afterward went to Virginia Water, where the Princess of Wales had arranged a picnic. There was boating on the pretty lake and tents on the lawn; tea was served during the afternoon, and a military band played the whole time. The great attraction was the echo. We all had to try our voices, and the gentlemen made bets as to how many times the echo would be heard. Some loud, piercing voices were repeated as many as eight times.

Here we bid our kind host good-by and took the train for Twickenham. We passed the night with Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman at their villa. The next day we were invited to a croquet-party and dinner by the Count and Countess de Paris.

We arrived at Twickenham Court at four o’clock, and began playing our game directly. Mrs. Hoffman had been praising me to the Countess de Paris to such a degree that she was fired with ambition to play against a “champion” of the first water, When we appeared on the ground I noticed that the Countess had a small ivory mallet. “This,” I said to myself, “is a foregone conclusion; any one who plays with a fancy mallet, and that of ivory, is sure to be beaten.” And in my conceit I thought I need not give myself much trouble about the game. Alas! I never appreciated the saying that “pride has a fall” until that day. At first I played with utter indifference, I was so sure of winning, and even when the Countess de Paris walked triumphantly over the ground, carrying everything before her, I smiled inwardly, saying to myself, “Just wait.” But though I played my very best I never scored a game, and I could not even make a decent stroke. I felt so discouraged, and I was beaten all to pieces. The dinner was solemn and impressive, the whole Orléans family being present.

The Prince de Joinville, the Duke de Chartres, and the Count de Paris, with their wives; in all, about twenty at table. I was disgusted with myself, provoked at my silly self-assurance, and mortified that I had been beaten à plate couture, which in English means that all my seams had been turned down and ironed, and all my feathers were drooping.

We were (at least I was) glad to escape at ten o’clock. I don’t think I ever was so tired. The week at Ascot, the picnic at Virginia Water, the balls, and the late sitting-up at night, all told on my nerves, and instead of resting at the Hoffmans’, I passed a miserable and restless night.

The following day we returned to London in time to drive out, at one o’clock, with the Lionel Rothschilds to their country-place. It is the most magnificent estate; the cedar-trees are particularly beautiful, and the broad lawn, which stretches out in front of the house, is the finest I have ever seen. Baron Rothschild himself drove the coach and four horses, and we spun along the fine road, passing Richmond and all the pretty villas and gardens, which were full of roses. It was my birthday, and I had many splendid presents. From Baroness Rothschild I received a superb traveling-bag, all the fittings of silver gilt, with my initials. Baron Alfred Rothschild gave me a smelling-bottle, with the colors of his racing-stables in enamel. We had a delightful luncheon, and got back to London in time for dinner at Lady Sherbourne’s. On hearing it was my birthday, she took a diamond-ring from her finger and gave it to me.

More balls, more dinners, luncheons, and garden-parties followed one another.

We intend to leave London after the ball at Marlborough House. I must go home, as I have nothing more to wear. We had accepted an invitation to the garden-party given by the Princess of Wales at Chiswick (their charming country-place). All the beauty and elegance of London graced the occasion. The Princess looked exquisite in her dainty summer toilette, and had a pleasant smile for every one. The Prince circulated among the guests, speaking to every one in his usual genial manner. The three little Princesses looked like three fluffy pink pin-cushions covered with white muslin. On the extensive lawn, which was like a green-velvet carpet, the ladies strolled about in their pretty, fresh dresses, sometimes sitting at the little tables which were shaded by large Japanese umbrellas placed between the terrace and the walk. It was a garden of living flowers.

The Prince of Wales, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, said to me, “What have you been doing since Ascot?”

“I have been doing a great deal, sir: dining and dancing and enjoying myself generally.”

“I am glad to know that. Been singing?”

“Not much, sir. We dined at Twickenham Court, where I played a disastrous game of croquet,” I answered.

“Do they play croquet at Twickenham Court?”

“Indeed they do, sir. The Countess de Paris plays a very good game.”

“What day did you dine there?”

“On the 17th, your Highness,” I replied.

“Are you sure it was the 17th you dined there?”

“Yes, I am quite sure. I know it, because it was the day before my birthday.”

“Was it a large dinner?”

“It was rather large. The whole Orléans family was there, and some others.”

“Did you know that they had had a conseil de famille that day?”

“No,” I answered; “I heard nothing of it.”

The Prince continued: “The whole family signed a petition to the Emperor Napoleon to be allowed to return to France and serve in the army. Can you imagine why they want to go back to France when they can live quietly here and be out of politics?” the Prince said.

“Do you think, sir, that the Emperor will refuse?”

“One never knows,” said the Prince. “Qui vivra verra.”

The Marlborough ball was very magnificent. The Princess of Wales looked exquisite. She is very lovely, and has gracious, sweet manners. I don’t wonder that her people adore her; and I think the Prince is just as good as he can be.

July, 1870.

On our return from London I remained quietly at delightful Petit Val.

On the 10th of July we received an invitation to a dinner at St. Cloud, but unfortunately we had promised Baroness Rothschild to spend some days at Ferrières, and when the invitation came we were obliged to send a telegram to St. Cloud expressing our regrets. There is such a talk of war, and so many rumors afloat, that every one is more than excited. Alphonse Rothschild says that, if there should be a war, it will be a tremendous one, and that Germany is better prepared than France. “But,” said he, “you ought to know about that, as your brother-in-law Hatzfeldt is in the secrets of his country.”

“That’s just it,” I answered; “because he is in the secrets of his country he is the last person to learn anything from, and we (the family) would be the last to know. But do you think that, if war were really imminent, the Emperor would think of giving a dinner?” I asked.

“That might be. We don’t yet know what the result of Benedetti’s interview with the King of Prussia at Ems will be,” the Baron answered.

We stayed at Ferrières until the 14th, and returned to Petit Val, where we received another invitation to St. Cloud for the 17th, which we accepted. On the 15th we went to Chamarande, returning to Paris on the following afternoon. The Duke de Persigny was not at Chamarande, otherwise we should have been a little more au courant of how desperate things looked in Paris. The Duchess had a word from the Duke the night before, “and he seemed,” she said, “very despondent.” But I remarked, as I did before, “Things could not be so threatening if they were giving a dinner.” “Je n’y comprends rien,” she replied, which was her invariable answer to any doubt expressed, or when one wanted a direct response.

We got back to town at half-past five, and I soon began dressing for the dinner. We drove out to St. Cloud, and arrived at the door of the château just before seven o’clock. What was our astonishment at not seeing any of the numerous servants who generally were waiting in the vestibule. There was only one man to be seen.

I began taking off my mantle, still wondering, when Monsieur de Laferrière came quickly out from one of the salons and said excitedly, “Did you not receive my letter countermanding the dinner?”

“Countermanding the dinner! What? Then there is no dinner?”

“No,” he rejoined; “it has been countermanded.”

As our carriage could not yet have got very far off, nothing was easier than to call it back and return to Paris. And I put on my wrap to depart, and stood there waiting for the coupé. Then Monsieur de Laferrière came out again and said, “Her Majesty says that, now that you are here, you had better stay.”

“But,” I protested, “it is much better for us to go back.”

He looked puzzled and said, “But the Empress desires it; you cannot well refuse, can you?”

“We will do as you advise.”

“Then I advise you to stay,” he answered.

And stay we did, and I never regretted anything so much in my life.

When we went into the drawing-room their Majesties were already there. The Empress came toward me and said kindly, “How do you do?” The Emperor held out his hand, but did not say a word. He looked so ill and tired. Never had I seen him look like that! The Prince Imperial seemed preoccupied and very serious.

Dinner was announced; the Emperor gave his arm to the Empress, and the Prince gave me his. There was no one beside ourselves and the Household, perhaps twenty in all, and dinner was served in the small dining-room looking toward Paris. On the other side of me was Count d’Arjuson, aide-de-camp to the Emperor.

You may imagine that I wished myself a hundred miles away. The Emperor never uttered a word; the Empress sat with her eyes fixed on the Emperor, and did not speak to a single person. No one spoke. The Emperor would receive telegram upon telegram; the gentleman sitting next to him opened the telegrams and put them before his Majesty. Every now and again the Emperor would look across the table to the Empress with such a distressed look it made me think that something terrible was happening, which was true. I could not learn much from my surroundings, as dead silence reigned. The dinner was very simple. How different from the gorgeous repasts of Compiègne, and how sad every one looked! I was glad when the signal for leaving the table was given and we re-entered the drawing-room.

The Emperor was immediately surrounded by his gentlemen. The Empress moved a little way off, but without taking her eyes from her husband. The Prince Imperial stood by his father, watching him. Then the Empress advanced toward his Majesty and took his arm to leave the room. Just as she neared the door she looked at me, turned back, and coming up to where I was standing held out her hand and said, “Bonsoir.” The Emperor stood a moment irresolutely, then, bowing his head, left the room with the Empress on his arm, the Prince following.

We bade the dames d’honneur good night and fled, found the coupé before the entrance, and weren’t we glad to get in it and drive away? I never in my life felt what it was to be de trop and even deux de trop. We reached the Rue de Courcelles at nine o’clock. It was too early to go to bed, and so I am sitting in my dressing-gown, while Charles has gone to his club to learn the latest news.

19th July.

This morning war was declared for sure, and they say that the Emperor is leaving soon with the Prince. Every one is very confident of the success of the French Army, and people go about in the streets singing “À Berlin” to the tune of “Les lampions.”

PETIT VAL, 28th July.

The Emperor, with the Prince, left this morning for Metz, to take the command of the army. He did not come into Paris, but in order to avoid demonstrations, noise, etc., had a platform put up on the other side of the station at St. Cloud, where the Empress and her ladies could say their adieux without the crowd looking on. The last words the Empress said to her son were, “Louis, fais ton devoir.” She is made the Regent during the absence of the Emperor.

30th August.

It looks now as if there might be war all over France. As it is, the Prussians are near Paris, and the French are trying to regain the ground they have lost. The news we get is very contradictory. According to the French official reports the French Army has been successful all the time. The English papers probably give the untarnished truth, unfavorable as it may be to France. Some people say that at the worst there is only a question of unimportant skirmishes.

We are well out of Paris and safely in Dinard, where Mr. Moulton is building a new house (we have already two). We left Petit Val rather precipitately, leaving everything behind us, clothes in wardrobes and letters in commodes. We shall not be away more than a month.

I can only say that we lead the most peaceful of lives during this time of war. I will not tell you any news, because it won’t be news when you read it. We are and have been all the time fed on false reports, great placards pasted up everywhere telling of the French victories, but from our English papers we know the contrary. It is pitiful to see the poor, half-clad peasants being drilled on the beach with sticks in their hands instead of guns. It is the French idea of keeping up the spirits of the army.

I sang in the cathedral last Sunday, and the quête (the money taken), they said, was a large sum. I doubt it! I know what the quêtes are here. Anything that can rattle in the bag is good. Buttons are particularly popular, as no one can see what you put in, and it does not matter.

There was a tremendous storm last night, and many of the slates of the new villa were blown off. The servants who sleep there thought that the Germans had come at last, and were frightened out of the few wits they own.

Madame Gignoux, our neighbor at Petit Val, who is living in her other château in Brittany, sent a letter to me which I should send to Helen in Berlin, to be sent to Paul, who is in Versailles, to be sent to Mr. Washburn, in Paris, who is to give it to Henry at Petit Val. Rather roundabout way! I can’t tell you how much of that sort of thing I am constantly doing for people who are afraid of doing anything for themselves; they think every one is a spy or a traitor.

PARIS, March 14, 1871.

DEAR MAMA,—You will be surprised to see that I am in Paris; but you will understand why when I tell you that I received a letter from Mrs. Moulton to this effect: “If you wish to go to Petit Val to look after the things you left there when you went to Dinard last August, you had better come to Paris without delay, as the trains are running regularly now.” The trains may have been running regularly (I left Dinard the next day), but they were certainly not running on time, for we missed all connections, and only arrived at Rennes after seven o’clock, too late to catch the evening train for Paris. The fine omnibus at the station made me imagine that it belonged to an equally fine hotel, but the hotel proved to be anything but fine. It was dreadfully dirty and shabby, and filled to overflowing. It was with the greatest difficulty I was able to secure a room for myself. My grumbling maid had to content herself with the sofa. The salle à manger was thronged with officers clanking their swords on the brick floor and all talking at once. I passed a sleepless night, being kept awake by the loud and incessant conversations in the corridor and the continual tramping of soldiers under my window. We started for Paris the next morning at eight o’clock. The train was crowded with people who, like myself, were eager to return home after so many months of anxious waiting. In all the stations through which we passed one saw nothing but soldiers, their ragged uniforms hanging on their emaciated forms; their feet—which had been frozen in January (poor things!)—were still bandaged, and hardly any of them possessed shoes. They did look, indeed, the picture of abject dejection and misery.

At Le Mans, the place where we stopped for luncheon, the soldiers were lying about on the brick pavement of the station, too tired and worn out to move, and presenting the saddest sight it has ever fallen to my lot to witness. They were waiting for the cattle vans to take them away. In these they would be obliged to stand until they reached Paris and its hospitals. Every one of the travelers was anxious to alleviate their misery in some way, by offering them cigars, food, and money. My heart bled for the poor creatures, and I gave them all I had in my purse, and my luncheon also. They represented the debris of Faidherbe’s army, which of all the troops had seen the most desperate fighting during the war. All the trains we passed were packed tight with soldiers, herded together like cattle, patient misery painted on their pale, tired faces.

Hungry and penniless I arrived at last in Paris, where I was delighted to see a healthy, normal-looking person in the shape of my brother-in-law, Henry, who met me at the station. He had plenty to tell me of his experiences since last September. He had been living at Petit Val throughout the whole campaign, and was still there looking after our interests, faisant la navette between Petit Val, Paris, and Versailles at his will. He had free passes for all these places. On my arrival at the Rue de Courcelles I found the family well, Mrs. Moulton knitting as usual, Mademoiselle Wissembourg napping, and Mr. Moulton reading the Journal des Débats out loud in his peculiar French.

I thought of the “Brook,” by Tennyson: “Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever.” The family had not eaten cats and dogs during the siege as, according to the newspapers, other people had done.

Mr. Moulton having been in Paris at the time of the Revolution of 1848, and knowing about revolutions, had had the forethought to lay in a stock of provisions, such as ham, biscuit, rice, etc., and all sorts of canned things, which he deemed would be sufficient for all their requirements. They had even given dinner-parties limited to a very choice few, who sometimes brought welcome additions in the shape of other canned delicacies.

When the family moved from Petit Val to Paris last September, the French Government had given them permission to keep one or two cows. They also brought a calf, a sheep, and some chickens with them. The cows and the sheep shared the stables with the horses, while the chickens were let loose in the conservatory, and were expected to lay enough eggs to pay for their board. The gardener had cleverly converted the conservatory into a sort of kitchen garden, and had planted some useful vegetables, such as radishes, carrots, salad, etc., so you see the family took good care that it should have enough to eat, and mice and rats only appeared on the table after the repasts.

PARIS, March 16, 1871.

DEAR MAMA,—This has been a very fatiguing day for me, so you will only receive a short letter.

Paul1 invited Mrs. Moulton and me to come to Versailles, and offered us a cup of tea as an inducement. You know Paul is Count Bismarck’s private secretary, having been with him and the German sovereign during the entire war. He is still at Versailles, but expects to leave for Berlin one of these first days. He came to fetch us at the station with the fat ponies and the basket-wagon (the ponies had escaped the fate of other fat ponies, and they had not furnished steaks for famished Parisians, but continued to trot complacently about, as of old). Fortunately they were not too fat to carry us through the park at a lively pace, and land us at Paul’s palatial residence. It seemed strange to see German officers, in their tight-fitting uniforms, strolling leisurely about in the park, where before I had only seen the rather slovenly pious-pious on holidays, when the fountains played by day and the fireworks by night.

The park looked enchanting in its spring toilette, and made me think of the last time I was here. Could it have been only last May? It seems years ago!

Paul had invited some of his German officer friends to take tea with us. Paul had been with the King of Prussia and Jules Favre and Bismarck at Ferrières, where they had met, he said, “with no other result than to see Jules Favre weep.”

Paul had been at Versailles when the King was proclaimed Emperor in the salle de glaces—the greatest emotion he had ever experienced, he said. He had also been witness of the signing of the armistice. The pen with which it was signed had been given him as a souvenir, and it was lying on his table.

Paul thought the Emperor Napoleon more to be pitied than blamed. He had gone into this war without really knowing the true state of things. He was made to believe that there were four hundred thousand men ready to take the field, when in reality there were only half that number, and those certainly not fit to be pitted against the Germans, who had been provided with better and newer maps than the French, and knew France and its army more thoroughly than the French themselves. We could have talked on this subject for hours had not the fat ponies come to take us to the station, where we bade farewell to Paul and the officers, and returned to Paris for the modest repast which we dignified by the name of dinner.

March 17th.

DEAR MAMA,—Such a funny thing happened to-day.

I don’t know whether I told you of some Americans, called the O——s, I met in Dinard fresh from America (via Southampton). When I bade them good-by, I said, in an offhand way, “When you come to Paris you must come and see me.”

“Oh! that will be nice,” gushingly replied Mrs. O——. “Where do you live?” (Every one of the O——s’ phrases commenced with “Oh!”)

“I live in the Rue de Courcelles,” I answered.

“Oh! Roue de Carrousel,” she repeated. “What number?”

“Rue de Courcelles,” I replied, correctingly; “twenty-seven.”

Mrs. O——’s next question was, “Oh! have you a flat?”

“A flat!! No,” I said, “we have a hotel. Every one knows our hotel in the Rue de Courcelles.”

I then proceeded to forget the O——s and everything concerning them. This morning, when we were at luncheon, the concierge came rushing in, the tassels on his calotte bristling with agitation.

“Madame,” he gasped, “there is a fiacre full of people with a lot of trunks asking to come in to Madame. I can’t understand what they want.” His emotion choked him.

We all said in unison: “Ask for their cards. Who can they be?”

The concierge came back with Mr. O——’s card.

I recollected my impulsive invitation and thought it very polite of them to be so empressés. I went into the salon, followed by Mademoiselle W——, where we found Mr. O—— seated at his ease in a fauteuil, his feet reposing on the white-bear rug.

I apologized for having kept him waiting, but explained that we had been at luncheon.

He (complacently), “Oh, that’s all right; we have just arrived in Paris and we came straight to you.”

I felt overwhelmed at such a keen appreciation of my politeness.

“How is Mrs. O——?” I said.

He answered with the inevitable “Oh!” “Oh! she’s all right. She’s outside in the cab.”

“Indeed!” I said, and wondered why she had not sent her card in with his, though I supposed she was waiting to be asked to come in, if he found me at home.

“We thought before trying anywhere else we would see if you could take us in.”

This staggered me considerably. I tried to take him “in” as he stood before me with traveling cap and umbrella.

“Are you full?” he went on. Mademoiselle and I wondered if we showed signs of a too copious luncheon.

“Why, what a nice place you have here!” looking about. “Well,” he continued, nothing daunted, “you see, we only want one bedroom, for us, with a room next for baby, and one not too far off for Arthur.”

What was he driving at? Mademoiselle W—— thought he was either a spy or a burglar who had come to take a survey of the hotel. Her bracelets and bunch of keys rattled ominously as the thought of burglars entered her brain.

He, familiarly settling himself down for a chat, “Do you think you could pick up a maid for Mrs. O——?”

Mademoiselle and I exchanged a glance of intelligent indulgence and thought: All our friends wanted, probably, was a few addresses before settling themselves in Paris. How stupid of us not to have thought of this sooner! I hastened to promise all sorts of names and addresses of tradespeople, thinking he would take his departure.

Not he! On the contrary, he tucked his umbrella more firmly under his arm, and turned to Mademoiselle W——: “Have you got a register?” taking her, no doubt, for la dame du comptoir.

Mademoiselle draped herself in her most Rachel-like attitude and glanced knowingly at the hot-air flue which she had been told was a register.

“We have,” she answered curtly, wondering if this extraordinary creature could be suffering from cold on this warm spring day.

“I had better write my name down!” This was too much! Mademoiselle thought now that he was not only a burglar, but a lunatic.

“I think,” I said, “I can give you the address of a very nice maid,” trying to lead him back into the paths we had trodden before.

“Oh! that’ll be all right. You have perhaps a maid in the house?”

“Certainly we have,” answered Mademoiselle with asperity, giving her velvet bow an agitated pat.

“Money is no object,” continued he; “I’m always willing to pay what one asks.” Mademoiselle now thought he was drunk and was for sending for the servants.

I asked him, “How is the baby?”

“Oh! baby’s all right. The nurse has been a little upset by the journey. You might give us the address of your doctor.”

“Yes, yes.” I gave him the name instantly, hoping he would go.

“We don’t need him right off; he can come here later, and you can talk to him yourself. Maria does not speak French.”

Mademoiselle gasped for breath, while he looked about him approvingly.

“Real nice house you have, Madame, not very central, but we don’t mind being in a quiet part of Paris, as Maria wants to learn French”; and seeing the conservatory, he remarked: “Arthur can play in there. That’ll do splendidly.” After an awkward pause: “Well, if the rooms are ready, we can come right in. Maria will be wondering why I have been so long.” I also wondered why he had been so long!

To cap the climax, he handed Mademoiselle a five-franc piece, saying: “I guess this will cover the cab. The coachman can keep the change.”

A light dawned on me! He thought this was a hotel!

I said, “When you get settled in your hotel I will come and see you.”

“What! Can’t you take us in? We counted on coming to your hotel.”

I laughed outright. Mademoiselle raised what she is pleased to call her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders,

I explained to my guest his mistake. Instead of saying, “Oh! that’s all right,” he said, “Well, I’ll be blessed,” and without wasting any more time than for a hasty good-by he marched out to join the tired Maria, the baby, the nurse, and Arthur. We watched them as they drove off, all gazing out of the window at the hotel which was not a hotel.

May Allah protect them!

March 19th.

DEAR MOTHER,—The day before yesterday Henry and I decided to go to Petit Val. I looked forward with delight to seeing my beautiful home again. Mrs. Moulton promised to drive out and bring me back to Paris late in the afternoon. We drove to the Gare de la Bastille and took our tickets for La Varenne. The station was so horribly dirty, it looked as if it had not been swept or cleaned since the commencement of the war, and as for the first-class compartment we entered I really hesitated to sit down on the shabby and dilapidated cushions.

We traveled very slowly, and stopped at every station mentioned in the time-table. Although these were devoid of travelers, the conductor opened the doors of all the carriages, and after waiting the allotted time shouted mechanically, “En voiture,” though there was absolutely no one to get in.

I thought we never would arrive!

All the little towns, once so thrifty and prosperous, are now hardly more than ruins. It is no wonder that this part of the country (Vincennes, St. Maur, Chenvières, etc.) is so destroyed, because it was all about here that the French, shut up in Paris, had made the most frequent sorties. Everything was terribly changed.

Now my beautiful bridge is a thing of the past. There is one arch half in water and debris of stone and mortar on the shore.

Henry and I, having no alternative, were obliged to walk from the station to the pontoon bridge, made, Henry said, in one night. I don’t know about that; but what I do know is that the French blew up my bridge in one night. Then we made the whole distance to Petit Val on foot, passing by the châteaux of Ormesson, Chenvières, Grand Val, and Montalon.

All the châteaux we passed are utterly abandoned, some quite in ruins; one can see, for instance, right through beautiful Grand Val, bereft of windows and doors.

But worse was awaiting me! My heart sank within me when we came in sight of the potager, the glory of Petit Val, so renowned in its day for its fruits and vegetables. Now it is frightful to see! Its walls torn asunder; cannon put in its crenelated sides, dilapidated and destroyed; the garden filled with rubbish of all description. But, as though nature were protesting against all this disorder and neglect, the cherry-trees were placidly blossoming; the almond-trees, with their delicate pink flowers, filled the air with perfume: everything, in short, doing its part in spite of war and bloodshed. Your heart would ache if you could see the place as it is now. The porter’s lodge is completely gutted, windowless and doorless, open to wind and weather.

It seems strange to see a sentry-box stationed at the entrance of the park and a sentinel pacing to and fro. Henry gave the password, and we walked up the avenue toward the château. I will not weary you by trying to depict my feelings, but will leave you to imagine what they must have been. I looked in vain for the beautiful Lebanon cedar which, you remember, stood where my nightingale used to sing, on the broad lawn. Henry said that it had been the first tree that the Germans had cut down, and it had been lying there on the lawn just as it fell, where the soldiers could conveniently cut their fuel. Henry called my attention to a white flag flying on the chateau, which, at Paul’s request, Count Bismarck had ordered to be put there.

Henry said it signified in military language that only staff officers were to occupy the château, and that no unnecessary damage should be done “if we are quiet.” Did Bismarck think we were likely to be unruly and go about shooting people? The one thing in the world we wanted was to be quiet. The flag also signified that the château should be protected. Henry had once complained to Bismarck of the damage done by the German soldiers at Petit Val, and Bismarck had replied, “À la guerre comme à la guerre,” adding, “The German Government will hold itself responsible for private losses, with the exception of those which are consequences of a state of war … there is always a certain amount of unavoidable destruction.”

“Unavoidable destruction!” cried Henry; “this can cover a multitude of sins.”

“The exigencies of war, if you like that better,” rejoined Bismarck.

Paul Hatzfeldt wrote to Helen last September that the King of Prussia had promised to put Petit Val under special protection. He even wished to go there himself; but Paul thought Petit Val looked so spoiled that he was glad the King did not go. If it was spoiled in September last, imagine what it must have been six months later, with six months of soldiers to spoil it!

When we arrived at the château itself the officers, who had evidently just been lunching, came out to meet us, wondering, apparently, who this courageous lady (poor trembling me!) could possibly be. Henry knew their names, and presented them all to me; they clanked their heels together and made the most perfect of military salutes.

The commanding officer in charge of Petit Val is Count Arco, a major of a Bavarian regiment. I hastened to explain my presence among them, saying that I wished to collect the various things I had left in the château when I went away last August, and I had taken advantage of the first occasion which offered itself of coming here.

Count Arco held a short conversation with Henry, who told him I would like to go to my apartment. “Do not trouble to have anything disarranged for me,” I said, “as I shall only be here for a short time. My mother-in-law is driving out later in the afternoon to take me back to Paris.”

While we were talking Count Arco informed me that there were twenty six officers in the château itself and one hundred and twenty soldiers quartered round in the different pavilions, farm-houses, ateliers, and —I think he said—about fifty in the orangerie.

Presently an orderly appeared and conducted me to my rooms, which had evidently been hurriedly evacuated, but they looked quite nice and clean. I was agreeably surprised to find my writing-desk and commodes pretty nearly as I remembered to have left them. At any rate, letters, trinkets, and so forth seemed undisturbed. I wish I could say the same for my wearing apparel, which had considerably diminished since my departure. Waists without their skirts, and skirts without their waists, and I found various female articles unknown to me; but never mind! Honi soit qui mal y pense!

It was said in France that no German could resist a clock, and that the dearth of clocks after the war is quite noticeable. To prove the contrary, and to applaud the officers who had lived in Petit Val (and there had been many hundreds of them), my clock was ticking away as of old on my mantelpiece.

Having finished packing the things to take with me, I wished to have a look at protected Petit Val.

The “unavoidable destruction” had been interpreted in a very liberal sense.

The salon was a sight never to be forgotten. The mirrors which paneled the whole of the east wall were broken, as if stones had been thrown at them; every picture had been pierced by bayonets. The beautiful portrait of the Marquis de Marigny (the former owner of Petit Val and brother of Madame de Pompadour) had vanished. Instead of the Aubusson furniture we had left, which, I suppose, has been transferred to other homes, I found two pianos, one grand (not ours), two billiard-tables (not ours), some iron tables, and some very hard iron chairs (certainly not ours), annexed, I should say, from a neighboring café.

The library, formerly containing such rare and valuable books, is now a bedroom—the shelves half empty, the books scattered about, some of them piled up in a corner and used as a table. Henry said that, when any one wanted to light a fire or a pipe, they simply tore a page out of a book. What did they care? Was it not one of the “exigencies of war”? The frames and glasses of the engravings were broken; but, fortunately, all the engravings were not ruined.

You remember Mrs. Moulton’s boudoir, where all was so dainty and complete? The soldiers had converted it into a kitchen, and at the moment we were there they were cooking some very smelly cabbage à la tedesco.

My pretty pavilion! If you could have seen it!

Evidently the all-powerful flag had not protected this, for it was without doors, windows, and parquets. The only thing in it was a dear little calf munching his last meal before being killed. To make it look more like a slaughter-house, there were haunches of beef hanging on the Louis XV. appliques, which had been left on the walls to serve as nails. Fresh blood was dropping from them on the sacks of potatoes underneath.

The officers had coffee served under the charmille.

I was glad to get something to sustain my sinking heart. Henry and I took a sad walk through the park. The once beautifully kept lawn is now like a ploughed field, full of ruts and stones.

The lake was shining in the sun, but on it there were no boats. The grotto over which used to trickle a little waterfall was completely dry, showing the ugly stucco false rocks. It seemed dismal and forlorn. I wondered how I ever could have thought it beautiful! The rivière was without its pretty rustic bridge; the picturesque pavilions were filled with soldiers; some were sitting on the porches mending their clothes.

Five o’clock came before we realized how late it was. We expected the carriage every moment; but there was no sign of it, though we scanned the length of the long avenue with the Count’s field-glasses.

Why did Mrs. Moulton not come? Something must have happened! But what? Henry and I were seriously alarmed. Noticing our looks of dismay, Count Arco asked me if I was anxious. I replied that I naturally was anxious, because if my mother-in-law could not come or send the carriage she certainly would have telegraphed. He then inquired if I wished to send a telegram. No sooner had I said “yes” than an orderly appeared on horseback to take the telegram to the station. He returned, while we still stood in the avenue looking for the longed-for carriage, with the astounding news that all the telegraph wires were cut.

To take the train was our next idea, and the wondering orderly was again sent back to find out when the next train would start. This time he returned with still more astounding news.

There were no trains at all!

Count Arco seemed to be most agitated, and I could see, by the expression of the faces of the other officers, that they were more disturbed than they wanted us to notice.

What should I do? Everything was in ruins in the village. There was not even an auberge of the smallest dimensions. All the neighboring châteaux were abandoned. Of whom could I ask hospitality? Count Arco, seeing my embarrassment, proposed my staying the night at Petit Val. Henry’s living there made it easier for me. So I accepted his offer; besides, there was no choice. The soldiers arranged my room according to their ideas of a lady’s requirements, which included a boot-jack, ash-trays, beer-mugs, etc. Their intentions were of the best.

At seven o’clock Henry and I dined with the officers. It seemed strange to me to be presiding at my own table surrounded by German officers, Count Arco being my vis-à-vis.

Do you want to know what we had for dinner? Bean soup, brought from Germany. Sausages and cabbage, put up in Germany. Coffee and zwiebacks, I suppose also from Germany.

The evening passed quickly, and I must admit very pleasantly. Any one who had pretensions to music played or sang, Henry performed some of his compositions; one officer did some card tricks. They all had an anecdote of their experience from the past months, which they told with great relish. Henry whispered to Count Arco: “My sister-in-law sings. Why don’t you ask her for a song?” I could have pinched him!

Although I was very tired and did not feel like it, I reflected that almost anything was preferable to being begged and teased. And, after all, why not be as amiable as my companions, who had done their best to amuse me?

I seated myself at the piano and commenced with one of Schumann’s songs, and then I sang “Ma Mère était Bohémienne,” of Massé, which had a great success, and at the refrain, “Et moi! j’ai l’âme triste,” there was not a dry eye in the little circle. Graf Waldersee, one of the oldest warriors, wept like an infant while I was singing, and coming up to me, after blowing his nose, said, in his delightfully broken English, “You zing like an angle [I hope he meant angel]. It is as if ze paradise vas opened to us.” Then he retired in a corner and wiped his eyes. I sang “Ein Jungling liebt ein Mädchen,” of Schumann, and when I came to the line, “Und wem das just passieret, dem bricht das Herz entzwei,” I heard a mournful sigh. It came from the Benjamin of the flock, a very young officer, who sat with his hands over his face sobbing audibly. What chord had I struck? Was his the heart that was breaking entzwei?

I had sung to many people, but I think I never sang to a more appreciative audience than this one.

Henry accompanied me in “Beware!” Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They all gathered around me, eager to thank me for the unexpected pleasure. I really think they meant what they said.

When I returned to my room I looked out of my window and saw the sentinel pacing to and fro in the moonlight. I realized for the first time that the château was protected!

I mourned the beautiful and stately Lebanon cedar!

March 18th.

It seemed so strange to wake up and find myself in my room. An orderly brought me a very neatly arranged tray, with tea and buttered toast and a note from Henry announcing the terrible news that Paris was under arms—a revolution (rien que ça) had broken out, and all approaches to the city were barricaded. This was news indeed! I understood now why no carriage came last night, why trains were stopped, why telegraph wires were cut, and why no mother-in-law appeared.

Henry was waiting to communicate with me as soon as I was out of my room. Indeed, a more stranded mortal than I was could hardly be imagined! However, there seemed nothing for me to do but to await events.

The officers met us in the salon, and we discussed the situation and different possibilities, but without any practical result.

Every one was much excited about the news. The officers pretended not to know more than we did; perhaps what they did know they did not care to tell. We saw messengers flying in all directions, papers handed about, more messengers galloping down the avenue, agitation written on the faces around us. All I knew was that there was a revolution in Paris and I was here.

Going out to the stables, we found the soldiers grooming their horses unconcernedly. From there we went to the orangerie, which presented a queer sight. The soldiers, of whom there must have been sixty, had arranged their beds all along the walls on both sides, and to separate them one from another had placed a tub with its orange-tree. The aviary had been converted into a drying-ground for their lingerie; they had suspended ropes from side to side, and thereon hung their week’s wash amid all its “unavoidable destruction.” Henry told me that when the Germans first came to Petit Val they begged old Perault (the butler) to hand them the key of the wine-cellar, and on his refusing they had tied the old man to a tree in the park, and left him there the whole of one cold night to consider the situation. Needless to say, the next day the Germans had the key. After they had taken all the best Château-Lafitte and all the rare wines Mr. Moulton had bought during the Revolution of 1848, they emptied the casks containing the Petit Bleu, made on the estate! The result was disastrous, and could Mr. Moulton have only seen the poor creatures doubled up with torture he would have felt himself amply revenged.

We ascended the hill behind the château to the high terrace, from where one can see Paris. We saw no smoke, therefore Paris was not burning. But what was happening there? We returned to breakfast, where the military band was playing on the lawn (a superfluous luxury, I thought, but I did not realize that so trivial a thing as a revolution could not interfere with military order). We were treated to the eternal sausage and something they called beefsteak; it might as well have been called “suprême de donkey,” it was so tough. However, the others ate it with iron jaws and without a pang. Count Arco suggested I should take a drive, en attendant les événements, and see the neighborhood. I acquiesced, thinking anything in the way of distraction would be a welcome relief. Imagine my feelings when I saw our calèche, a mere ghost of its former self, dragged by four artillery horses and postilioned by two heavy dragoons.

“The exigencies of war” had obliged the soldiers to remove the leather, the carpet, the cushions, and all the cloth; only the iron and wood remained to show that once this had been a carriage.

This ancient relic drew up with a thump on what had been flower-beds, and the Count opened the door for me to enter, but on observing my look of dismay when I saw the hard, cushionless seats, despatched an officer to try to find a cushion for me. Apparently, however, cushions were souvenirs our friends had forgotten to bring with them from other residences. Judging from the time we waited, the officer must have ransacked the whole house, but had found nothing better than a couple of bed-pillows, with which he appeared, carrying one under each arm, to the great amusement of the beholders. I mounted this grotesque equipage, the Count and Henry following, and sat enthroned on my pillows of state.

We asked, before starting, if there was any news from Paris, and receiving an answer in the negative, we drove off. Up hills, over lawns and flower-beds, zigzagging through vineyards and gardens, never by any chance keeping to the proper road, we made the tour of the environs.

To give you an idea how completely the châteaux had been ransacked, I can tell you that I picked up about a yard and a half of handsome Brussels lace in the courtyard of the château of Sucy. We drove hastily through the adjoining estate of Grand Val, which looked even more deplorable than Sucy. I began to wonder if the artillery horses and the carcass of the vehicle in which we sat would be capable of carrying me to Paris, or at least within walking distance of it. You see, I was beginning to get desperate. Here was I, with the day almost over, without any apparent prospect of getting away. But, as the Psalmist puts it, “Sorrow endureth for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” My joy came late in the afternoon, on returning to Petit Val, where I found the landeau of the American Legation, my mother-in-law, and (hobnobbing with the German officers) the American Minister himself, the popular and omnipotent Mr. Washburn.

They were overjoyed to see me, as they had been as anxious as I had been, having tried every means in their power to reach me. To telegraph was impossible; to send a groom on horseback equally so. Finally, as a last resource, they had written to Mr. Washburn to see if he could not solve the difficult question, which he did by driving out himself with Mrs. Moulton to fetch me.

As soon as the horses were sufficiently rested (my hosts and I being profuse in our mutual thanks), we started for Paris, passing through Alfort, Charenton, and many villages, all more or less in ruins. There were plenty of people lounging about in the streets. We reached Vincennes without difficulty; but thenceforth our troubles commenced in earnest.

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.

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?”

Henry acknowledged that at the moment he looked so little like the owner of anything except the bag, in which the peas were rattling like bullets, that he forgave the doubt.

Louis was called from the box and the question was put to him. In ordinary moments Louis would have mumbled and stuttered hopelessly; but he seemed to have been given overwhelming strength on this occasion, and surprised Henry by confirming his words with an unction worthy of the great Solomon himself. He waved his whip aloft, pointed to Henry, and putting his hand on his heart (which I am sure was going at a tremendous pace) said, “I swear that this is my master!”

No one but a Communard could have doubted him; but Félix Pyat no more believed Louis’s oath than he did Henry’s documents.

“Bien,” said Pyat; “if it is true that you live in the Rue de Courcelles, we will leave you there and continue on our way.”

Now followed the most spirited altercation, all talking at once, Henry trying to get in the coupé, and the others refusing to get out.

“À la maison!” shouted Henry.

“À la Place Beauvais!” shouted the Communards. They continued giving these contradictory orders to poor, bewildered Louis until a crowd had collected, and they thought it better to stop quarreling. Henry entered the carriage, meekly taking his seat on the strapontin opposite the intruders, and thinking of the peas, which ought to have been in the pot by this time, assented to be left at home, and ordered Louis to drive the triumphant Communards to the Ministry of the Interior, Place Beauvais.

It would be difficult for one who did not know Louis to guess what his state of mind must have been. He was not of the kind they make heroes of; he was good, kind, and timid, though he was an ancien Zouave and had fought in several battles (so he said). I always doubted these tales, and I still think Louis’s loose, bulging trousers and the tassel of his red cap were only seen from behind.

It was as good as a play to hear Louis’s tragic account of yesterday, and it made your hair stand on end when he recounted how he had been stopped in the Rue de Castiglione, how two fiery Communards had entered the coupé and ordered him to drive to the Hôtel de Ville, where Félix Pyat had mounted the carriage. What must his account have been in the kitchen?

However, the principal thing was that the harassed peas were safe in the kitchen and in time to be cooked and figure on the menu as légumes (les petits pois).

Our guests’ faces beamed with satisfaction at the idea of these primeurs, and evidently anticipated great joy in eating them; but after they had tasted them they laid down their forks and … meditated! The servant removed the plates with their primeurs, wondering how such wanton capriciousness could exist in this primeur-less Paris. Only Mr. Moulton ate them to the last pea. We—the initiated—knew where the peculiar taste of soap, tooth-wash, perfume, etc., came from! The peas descended to the kitchen, and ascended again untouched to the hothouse, where they finished their wild and varied career. If they could have spoken, what tales they could have told! They had displaced the German Army, they had aided and abetted the cause of the Commune, and they had cost their bringer untold sums in pourboires, in order to furnish a few forkfuls for Mr. Moulton and a gala supper for the hens.

We had an excellent dinner: a potage printanier (from cans), canned lobster, corned beef (canned), and some chickens who had known many sad months in the conservatory. An ice concocted from different things, and named on the menu glace aux fruits, completed this festin de Balthazar.

Mr. Moulton was obliged to don the obnoxious dress-coat, laid away during the siege in camphor, and smelling greatly of the same. He held in his hand La Gazette Officielle. The same shudder ran through us all. It was to be read to us after dinner! Coffee was served in the ballroom, which was dimly lighted.

Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman’s eyes to read the fine print of the Gazette? Alas! no. Mr Moulton’s eyes were not the kind that recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardly had we finished our coffee than out came the Gazette. We all listened, apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction; Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself to slumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years.

Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmured to himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, his profound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the art of enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what his graceful language could become del bocca Americana!

Delsarte’s idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers of the workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large about the hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating from the same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; a fancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if he had a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on his calotte, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolution of 1848.

Massenet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with his editor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. After the Gazette we awoke to life, and Massenet played some of the “Poème de Souvenir,” which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). What a genius he is! Massenet always calls Auber le Maître, and Auber calls him le cher enfant.

Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers, and while he was at one piano Massenet put himself at the other (we have two in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wished they could have gone on forever.

Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, we could have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris—in the hands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed, Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of.

Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing “Il pleut, il pleut, Bergère,” but condescended to declaim “La Cigalle ayant chanté tout l’été,” and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of the fable, “Eh bien, dansez maintenant,” he gave such a tragic shake to his head that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hung limply over his bosom.

I sang the “Caro Nome” of “Rigoletto,” with Massenet’s accompaniment. Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me on the expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into my voice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls.

He now felt he had not lived in vain.

It being almost midnight, our guests took their departure.

There were only two carriages before the door, Mr. Washburn’s and Auber’s. Mr. Washburn took charge of the now very sleepy Delsarte, who declaimed a sepulchral bonsoir and disappeared, his redingote waving in the air.

The maître took the cher enfant, or rather the cher enfant led the maître out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The Gazette Officielle had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubt being perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coat and pumps replaced by robe de chambre and slippers. Henry said the next morning he had had a bad night;… he had dreamt that the whole German army was waiting outside of Paris, shelling the town with peas.

April 1, 1871.

Beaumont wished to accompany us to the ambulance to-day, thinking that he might get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his album and pencils with him, he did not accomplish much.

We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawing of him. The officer said in a low tone to me, “Is that the famous artist Beaumont?”

I replied that it was.

“I am so glad to have an opportunity to see him, as I have heard so much of him, and have seen a great many of his pictures in Germany.”

This I repeated to Beaumont, and it seemed to please him very much.

When we left, Beaumont said to him, showing him the sketch, “Would you like this?”

The officer answered in the most perfect French, “I shall always keep it as a precious souvenir”; and added, “May I not have a sketch of my nurse?” (meaning me).

Beaumont thought that it was rather presuming on the part of the officer to ask for it, and seemed annoyed. However, he made a hasty drawing and gave it to him, saying in his blunt way, “I hope this will please you.” The officer thanked him profusely, and we left. Turning to me he said: “I have not profited much by this visit. I have given, but not taken anything away.”

“But the experience,” I ventured to say.

“Oh yes, the experience; but that I did not need.”

In the evening we had one of our drowsy games of whist, made up of Countess B——, our neighbor opposite, brought across the street in her sedan-chair (she never walks), Mr. Moulton, myself, and Beaumont making the sleepy fourth. Neither of our guests speaks English with anything like facility, but they make frantic efforts to carry on the game in English, as Mr. Moulton has never learned the game in French and only uses English terms.

Mr. Moulton always plays with Countess B——, and I always play with Beaumont; we never change partners.

This is the kind of game we play:

It takes Beaumont a very long time to arrange his cards, which he does in a unique way, being goaded on by Mr. Moulton’s impatient “Well!” He picks out all the cards of one suit and he lays them downward on the table in a pile; then he gathers them up and puts them between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. With the next suit he does likewise, placing them between the second and third fingers, and so on, until the grand finale, when the fingers loosen and the cards amalgamate. During this process his cards fall every few minutes on the floor, occasioning much delay, as they have all to be arranged again.

It is my deal; I turn up a heart. The Countess is on my left. We wait with impatience for her to play, but she seems only to be contemplating her cards.

“Well!” says Mr. Moulton, impatiently.

We all say in unison, “Your play, Countess!”

The Countess: “Oh, what dreadful cards! I can never play. Oh,” with a sigh, “how dreadful!”

We are all very sorry for her. She has evidently wretched cards.

Long pause. “Your turn, Countess!” we all cry.

“What are trumps?” she asks.

We show her the trump card on the table and say together, “Hearts.”

Another long pause.

She arranges her cards deliberately and then shuts them up like a fan.

“Your play, partner,” says Mr. Moulton, tired out with waiting.

With a dismal wail, and looking about for sympathy, she plays the ace of clubs.

Mr. Moulton gathers up the trick.

She has no idea that she has taken anything, but is quietly adjusting her cards again.

“Your turn, Countess!”

“What, my turn again?” She expresses the greatest surprise.

She: “What dreadful cards! Indeed, I cannot play.”

Poor thing! That was probably her only good card, and we expected her next would be the two of spades. But no. She pulls out, with the air of a martyr, the ace of spades.

Mr. Moulton: “Well! that’s not so bad.”

Great astonishment on her part. She can’t believe that she has actually taken a trick. She had hoped some one else would have played.

A long, fidgety silence follows.

All: “Your play, Countess!” She plays the queen of hearts.

This has no success, as I take it with my king.

Mr. Moulton: “Why did you play trumps?”

She: “Oh! was that trumps? I must take it back. Pray, let me take it back.”

We all recover our cards. (My partner takes this occasion to drop some of his on the floor. He picks them up and arranges them again in order.)

“Your turn, Countess!” we cry, exhausted.

She: “What, again! Why does some one else not play?”

Then out comes the ace of diamonds.

Some one said, “You have all the aces.”

She: “Oh! not all; I have not the ace of hearts.”

Her partner, aghast, begs her not to tell us what her other cards are, and so the game proceeds to the bitter end.

There were other moments funny beyond words especially when Mr. Beaumont’s English fails to cope with the situation and he will try to discuss the points where the Countess has failed. He says, “Did you not see he put his king on your spade ace-spot?” and, “Madame, you played the third of spades.” And when we count honors, Beaumont will cover the table with his great elbows and enumerate his: “I had the ass, the knight, and the dame.”

I heard a suppressed chuckle from my father-in-law, and seemed to see a vision of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza pass before me.

24th of April.

DEAR MAMA,—Auber sent a note early this morning by his coachman to ask me to lunch with him at ten-thirty o’clock (of course accompanied by Mademoiselle, my aunt, as he calls her). The coachman says that his master is not feeling well and longs to see a friend.

I am proud to be the friend he longs to see, and was only too happy to accept. Mademoiselle W—— was equally happy, ready, as always, for any excursion where a good repast was in view, and of that we were sure, as Auber’s chef is renowned, and is so clever that, though the market is limited, he can make something delicious out of nothing.

Louis appeared in a short jacket and a straw hat, looking rather waggish and very embarrassed to present himself in such a costume.

Driving through the Boulevard Clichy and endless out-of-the-way streets, we finally reached Auber’s hotel, which is in the Rue St. Georges.

Louis was glad to find safety under the porte-cochère, and to see his bosom companion, Auber’s butler, into whose arms he fell with joy.

Auber came to the door to welcome us, seeming most grateful that we had come, and led us into the salon. There is only one way to get into the salon, and that is either through the dining-room or the bedroom; we went through the bedroom, as the other was decked for the feast.

I have never seen Auber look so wretched and sad as he did to-day; I could hardly believe it was the same Auber I have always seen so gay and full of life and spirits.

I brought a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley, which Louis had gathered in the all-producing hothouse.

“Merci, merci,” he said. “Les fleurs! C’est la vie parfumée.” Waiting for the breakfast to be served, he showed us about in his apartment. In the salon, rather primly furnished, stood the grand piano. The bookshelves contained Cherubini’s (his master) and his own operas, and his beloved Bach. A table in the middle of the room, covered with photographs and engravings, completed son salon de garçon.

The bedroom was also very primitive: his wooden bed, with its traditional covering of bourre; a chiffonier containing his curios, royal presents, and costly souvenirs; his writing-table; and his old piano, born in 1792, on which he composed all his operas.

The piano certainly looked very old; its keys were yellow as amber, and Auber touched them with tenderness, his thin, nervous fingers, with their well-kept nails, rattling on them like dice in a box.

He said: “Le piano est presqu’aussi vieux que moi. Que de tracas nous avons eu ensemble!”

Breakfast was announced, and we three took our places at the beautifully arranged table. I wondered where the butler had found flowers and fruit and écrevisses. Mademoiselle and I ate with an astounding appetite; but Auber, who had not eaten a déjeuner for thirty years, contented himself with talking.

And talk he did, like a person hungry and thirsty to talk. He told us about Scribe, for whom he had an unlimited admiration. “I wish you had known him,” he said; “he was the greatest librettist who ever existed. I only had to put the words on the piano, put on my hat, and go out. When I came back the music was all written—the words had done it alone.” (“Je n’avais qu’à mettre les paroles sur le pupitre, prendre mon chapeau et sortir. Quand je revenais la musique était toute écrite, les paroles l’avaient faite toutes seules.”)

He related incidents connected with his youth. His father was a banker very well off, rich even, and had destined Auber to be a banker, like himself; but when Auber went to London to commence his clerkship he found he had no vocation for finance, and began to devote himself to music and composition. He was thirty-six years old when he wrote his first opera. He told us that his first ones were so bad that he had given them to the Conservatoire pour encourager les commençants.

Breakfast had long since finished; but dear old Auber rambled on, and Mademoiselle and I sat listening.

He said he was going to leave all his music to me in his will. I thanked him, and replied nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have something which had belonged to him.

“Je ne regarde jamais mes partitions sans être gagné par la tristesse et sans penser que de morceaux à retoucher! En composant, je n’ai jamais connu d’autre muse que l’ennui.”

“On ne le dirait pas,” said Mademoiselle, wanting to join the conversation. “Votre musique est si gaie, si pleine d’entrain.”

“Vous trouvez! Vous êtes bien bonne. Je ne sais comment cela arrive. Il n’y a pas de motifs parmi ceux qu’on trouve heureux, que je n’ai pas écrit entre deux baîllements. Je pourrais,” he went on, “vous montrer tel passage où ma plume a fait un long zigzag parce que mes yeux se sont fermés et ma tête tombait sur la partition. On dirait, n’est ce pas? qu’il y a des somnambules lucides.”

We thought Auber seemed very fatigued, and we soon left him, driving back the same way we came, and reached home without any adventures.

7th of May.

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.

“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.”

The flowers (you should have seen them!) were mostly what they call here “floral tributes” (what you would call des pièces montées), and were brought in by a procession of ushers and placed on the stage. I do not mention the quantities of bouquets handed up to me!

One “floral tribute” received an ovation as it was borne up the aisle by four men, and hauled up on to the stage by a man who came from the side scenes. It was a harp made entirely of flowers, about six feet high. It made quite a screen for me as I went in and out. The card of the harp was brought to me, and I read, “H. P. Stalton, ‘Asleep in Jesus,’ North Conway.” I had no idea what it meant, but mama remembered that some years ago, when she and I were traveling in the White Mountains, we stopped overnight at the little town of North Conway. At the hotel we heard that a lady had died, and her son was terribly grieved. There was to be a funeral service the next morning in the parlor of the inn. I asked, “Do you think that I might sing something?” “Of course, any music would be welcome,” was the answer. So I chose the hymn, “Asleep in Jesus,” which I sang when the time came. As there was nothing but an old piano, I preferred to sing without accompaniment. I was very much affected, and I suppose my voice showed my emotion, because other people were equally affected. As for the young man, he knelt on the floor and put his hands over his face and sobbed out loud. Poor fellow, my heart bled for him!

I sang the hymn through with difficulty. The last verse I sang pianissimo and very slowly. The silence was painful; you could have heard a pin drop. The whole scene was very emotional, and I remember feeling that I never wanted to go through such a thing again. The young man had not forgotten, after all these years, either the song or the singer. Hence the beautiful harp of flowers to thank me. I should have liked to have seen him, to thank him.

There is a very sad, pathetic, and patriotic song called “Tender and True” by a composer, Alfred Pease, which I sing. Strakosch said, “You must have in your répertoire something American.” This song is about a young soldier who takes “a knot of ribbon blue” from his ladylove, and who dies on the battle-field with the knot of ribbon on his breast. When I sing “the flag draped over the coffin lid” the whole audience is dissolved in tears. The women weep openly; the men hide behind their opera-glasses and try to blow their noses noiselessly between the verses.

I always finish with “Beware!” and Charles always accompanies me, which pleases him very much. He thinks that American audiences are very appreciative, because they stand up and clap and the women wave their handkerchiefs.

I tell him they stand up because the next thing they are going to do is to go out.

WORCESTER, December, 1871.

DEAR MOTHER,—Thanks for your letter. I had hoped to have received better news of Charles.

When he left Thursday he did not look well, but I thought it was owing to the excitement and late hours and the irregular life we have been leading. He wanted to go to Cambridge, where he thought that he could take better care of himself. I would have gone with him, but I felt that I could not leave Strakosch and Worcester in the lurch.

If I don’t receive a reassuring telegram from you, I shall start off without delay.

I was dreadfully nervous and unstrung, as you will see, when I tell you how I blundered. I do not like singing in oratorio. Getting up and sitting down all the time, holding and singing from a book, losing my place and having to find it in a hurry, is not what I like. However, I got on very well at first, but there is a place in the score where three angels come forward and sing a trio without accompaniment. Then the soprano (me) steps in front and sings, without a helping note: “Hail, Hail, O Lord God of Hosts!” The orchestra and chorus take up the same phrase after me.

I sang boldly enough, “Hail, Hail, O Lord God of Hosts!” but suddenly felt cold shivers down my back when Zerrahn tapped his baton on his stand, thereby stopping all further proceedings, and turning to me said, in a low whisper, “A half-tone lower.”

Good gracious, how could I find the right note! First I had to remember the last tone I had sung, then I had to transpose it in my head, all in an instant. It was a critical moment.

Suppose I did not hit the right note! The whole orchestra and the two-hundred-man-strong chorus would come thundering after me—the orchestra on the right key and the chorus following in my footsteps.

I turned cold and hot, and my knees trembled under me. You may imagine what a relief it was when I heard things going on as if nothing had happened. I had struck the right note! And I finished the oratorio without further disaster. I do not think that any one in the audience remarked anything wrong.

I said to Zerrahn, after: “Could you not have helped me? Could you not have given me the note?”

“No,” he answered. “Impossible! I could not ask the nearest violinist to play the note, and I could not trust myself to find it. I was as nervous as you were.”

[Mrs. Moulton was called to Cambridge the next day. Mr. Moulton had died suddenly.]

CUBA, HAVANA, January, 1873.

DEAR MAMA,—We left New York in a fearful blizzard. It was snowing, hailing, blowing, and sleeting; in fact, everything that the elements could do they did on that particular day. We were muffled up to our ears in sealskin coats, furs, boas, and so forth, and were piloted over the wet and slippery deck to our stateroom on the upper deck, which we wished had been on the under deck, as it was continually washed by the “wild waves.”

We knew pretty well “what the wild waves were saying”; at least Laura did, and they kept on saying it until well into the next day.

I being an old sailor (not in years but in experience), as I had crossed the Atlantic several times, felt very superior on this occasion, and looked down without sympathy on the maiden efforts of my suffering sister; and, having dressed, goaded her almost to distraction to get up and do likewise, which she obstinately refused to do.

After ordering breakfast I ventured out on deck, to find myself alone, among deserted camp-stools. I realized then that the others preferred “rocking in the cradle of the deep” in their berths and in the privacy of their cabins. I myself felt very shaky as I stumbled about on the deck holding on to the rails, and I, hurrying back to the haven of my stateroom, happened to meet the struggling steward endeavoring to balance the tray containing the breakfast I had ordered, and to make his way through my door.

The steward, the tray, and I all collided. The result was disastrous: the food made a bee-line for the ceiling, the drinkables flooded the already wet floor and our shoes, while cups, saucers, plates, and dishes were scattered to fragments.

All that day we and every one were dreadfully sick; but what a contrast the next day was! A hot, tropical sun blazed down on us, the awnings were put up, the ladies appeared in lighter costumes, the men in straw hats and thin jackets. How odious our warm wraps and rugs seemed! And how completely our discomforts of the day before had disappeared! Laura had forgotten her miseries, and was already planning another sea-trip, and eagerly scanning the menu for dinner, to which she did ample justice.

The third day was still hotter; parasols, summer dresses, and fans made their appearance, and at four o’clock we saw Morro Castle and the lighthouse; and we steamed (literally, for we were so hot) up the exquisite harbor, where white Havana lay like a jewel on the breast of the water.

Hot! It must have been one hundred and ninety in the shade—if there had been any; but there was none. The glare of the whiteness of the city and the reflection on the water, the air thick with perfumes, gave us a tropical tinge, and made us shudder to think what we should have to endure before we could rest in the hotel, which we hoped would be cool.

Young Isnaga, who has just come from Harvard College, where I knew him, and who was now returning to his native land to help his father on the plantation, served us as a guide; in fact, he was our Baedeker. He told us that all those hundreds of little boats with coverings like hen-coops stretched over them, which swarmed like bees about our steamer, did not contain native ruffians demanding our money or our lives, as they seemed to be doing, but were simply peaceable citizens hoping to earn an honest penny.

We dreaded going through the custom-house in this excessive heat; but Isnaga recognized one of his servants, in a small boat coming toward us, gesticulating wildly and waving a paper; this paper meant, it seemed, authority with the officials, so we had no delay, as Isnaga took us under his wing. I almost wished that the custom-house had confiscated my thick clothes and the fur-lined coat; and as for the boa, it looked like a vicious constrictor of its own name, and I wished it at the bottom of the sea.

Isnaga took us in his boat and landed us on the tropical “Plaza,” where we found his volante waiting. He insisted on our getting into this unique vehicle, which I will describe later when I have more time.

Our one thought was to reach the hotel, which we did finally, sending the volante back to its owner by a sweeping wave of the hand in the direction of the quay, which the black Jehu seemed to comprehend.

Fortunately the proprietor spoke what he thought was English, and we were able to secure very good rooms overlooking the harbor. How delicious the cool, marble-floored room appeared to us! How we luxuriated in the fresh, cold water, the juiciest of oranges, the iced pineapples, and all the delicious fruits they brought us, and, above all, in the balmy air and the feeling of repose and rest! We reappeared in the thinnest of gauzes for the repast called dinner.

Adieu, cold and ice! Vive le soleil!

This hotel (San Carlos) is situated right on the bay. The quay in front of us is garnished with a row of dwarfy trees and dirty benches, these last being decorated, in their turn, by slumbering Cubans. There were colonnades underneath the hotel, where there were small shops, from which the odor of garlic and tobacco, combined with the shrieks and the snapping of the drivers’ whips, reached us, as we sat above them on our balcony.

The hotel is square, with an open courtyard in the middle, and all the rooms open on to the marble gallery which surrounds the courtyard. This gallery is used as a general dining-room; each person eats at his own little iron table placed before the door of his bedroom.

Our large room contains two iron beds (minus mattresses), with only a canvas screwed on the iron sides, but covered with the finest of linen sheets. An iron frame holds the mosquito-net in place.

Evidently a wash-stand is a thing to be ashamed of, for they are concealed in the most ingenious way. Mine in the daytime is rather an attractive commode; Laura’s is a writing-table, which at night opens up and discloses the wash-basin. Otherwise there is little furniture: two cane-bottomed chairs, two bamboo tables (twins); one has a blue ribbon tied on its leg to tell it from its brother. Two ingeniously braided mats of linen cord do duty for the descente de lit. Oh yes! there is a mirror for each of us, which in my hurry to finish my letter I forgot to mention; but they are so small and wavy that the less we look in them the better we are satisfied with ourselves.

We have a large balcony, which has a beautiful view of the harbor and the opposite shore, two huge wooden so-called windows, which are not windows, opening on to the balcony. There is a panel in the middle which you can open if you want some fresh air. Glass is never used for windows, so that when you shut your window you are in utter darkness. Opposite is the door which is not a door, but a sort of a gate with lattice shutters, giving the room the look of a bar-room. There is space above the shutters which is open to the ceiling.

Any one in the gallery who wanted to could stand on a chair and peer over. Everything that goes on in the gallery, every noise, every conversation, can be clearly overheard, and if one only understood the language it might be very interesting.

The bars and locks on our doors and windows date from the fifteenth century, I should say, and it is with the most herculean efforts that we manage to shut ourselves in for the night; and we only know that the day has broken when we hear the nasal and strident Cuban voices, and the clattering of plates on the other side of the gate. Then we work like galley-slaves unbarring, and the blazing sun floods our room.

I don’t know if bells are popular in Havana; but in this hotel we have none. If you want a chambermaid, which you do about every half-hour, you must open your gate and clap your hands, and if she does not come you go on clapping until some one else comes.

For our early breakfast we begin clapping at an early hour, and finally our coffee and a huge plate filled with the most delicious oranges, cut and sugared, are brought to us. We tried to obtain some simple toast; but this seemed unknown to the Cuban cuisine, and we had to content ourselves with some national mixture called rolls.

CUBA, January 24, 1873.

The letters of introduction which kind Admiral Polo (Spanish Minister in Washington) gave me must be very powerful and far reaching, for we are received as if we were Princesses of the blood. The Governor-General came directly to put himself, his house, his family, his Generalship—in fact, all Cuba—á la disposición de usted. The Captain of the Port appeared in full gala uniform, and deposited the whole of the Spanish fleet, his person, and the universe in general at my feet, and said, “That no stone should be left unturned to make our stay in Havana illustrious in history.”

What could the most admirable of Polos have written to have created such an effect? Then came the General Lliano, a very handsome man, but who I thought was rather stingy, as he only put the Spanish Army at my disposition, and himself (cela va sans dire).

Next came Señor Herreras, dressed all in white, with the most perfect patent-leather boots, much too tight for him, and which must have caused him agonies while he was offering to put himself (of course), his bank, and all his worldly possessions in my hands.

I accepted all with a benign smile, and answered that I only had America and my fur-lined coat and boa to offer in return.

We had so many instructions given to us as to what to do and what not to do in this perfidious climate that we were quite bewildered.

Never to go out in the sun. Result—Malaria and sudden death.

Never put your feet on the bare floors. Result—Centipedes.

Never drink the water. Result—Yellow fever.

Never eat fruit at night. Result—Typhoid fever.

If you sleep too much; if you sit in the draught; if you let the moon shine on you. Result—Lockjaw and speedy annihilation.

These admonitions were very confusing, and we lay awake at night thinking how we could manage to live under these circumstances.

What a delight to look at the view from our balcony! I never imagined anything so beautiful: the distant hills are so blue, the water so sparkling, the sun gilds the hundreds of sails in the harbor. At night the water is brilliant with phosphorescence, and when the boats glide through it they throw out a thousand colors; even the reflection of the stars is multicolored. And then, pervading all, the delicious fragrance of fruit and flowers and tropicality!

When I am not poetical, as above, I notice the oxcarts with their cruel drivers yelling at their poor beasts and goading them with iron-pointed sticks. When they were not striking them, they struck picturesque attitudes themselves, leaning on their carts and smoking endless cigarettes. The cabmen are also picturesque in their way. After their return from a “course,” tired out from whipping their forlorn horses into the sideling trot which is all they are equal to, and after flicking their ears until they are too lazy to continue, they hang their hats and stockingless feet over the carriage lamps and chew sugar-cane, looking the picture of contentment.

Cabs are cheap; twenty-five cents will take you anywhere à la course. But if you go from one shop to another, or linger at a visit, fancy knows no bounds, for there is no tariff and the coachman’s imagination is apt to be vivid; and as you can’t trust anything else, you must trust to your conversational power to get you out of the scrape.

Volantes are capricious and too exotic a vehicle to trifle with; moreover, they turn corners with difficulty, and corners in Havana are the things you meet the most of.

The streets are narrow; so that if you wish to avoid adventures you must be careful to give your coachman the correct address before starting off. The porter of the hotel did this for us to-day, as our Spanish has not reached perfection yet.

All the streets are labeled subida, which means, “go up this street,” or bajado, “down this street.” If, by chance, you want to go to 27 subida and you amble on to 29, it takes you hours to go bajado and get back to subida again, going round in a cercle vicieux. We spent a whole broiling afternoon buying two spools of thread, my parasol being mightier than my tongue, as the poor coachman’s back can vouch for. When everything else failed we shouted in unison, “Hotel San Carlos,” and the black coachman grinned with delight. Seeing bajado so often at different points, Laura thought it was the sign of an assurance company; when I saw it on the same house as Maria Jesus Street I thought it was some kind of charitable institution.

A volante, as I have said, is a unique and delightful vehicle, which one requires to know to appreciate. There are two huge wheels behind and none in front; the animal, secured between the shafts, supports the weight of the carriage. The seat is very low, so that you recline, more than sit; your feet are unpleasantly near the horse’s tail; a small seat can be pulled out between you and your companion if there is a child in the party. A dusky postilion decked out in high top-boots, with enormous spurs of real silver, sits astride the horse between the shafts, and a huge sombrero covers his woolly head.

The harness, spurs, buckles, and a good deal of the carriage trimmings are silver; the horse’s tail is braided once a week and tied to the saddle. No frisky frightening off the flies from his perspiring and appetizing body! Sometimes (in fact, usually) there is an extra horse outside of the traces, so that labor is thus divided. The volante drags the people; the horse in the shafts drags the volante, and the extra horse drags everything; the coachman does the spurring, whipping, and shouting, and the inmates do the lolling.

I forgot to say that my friend, Lola Maddon, whom I used to know in Paris, is here, married to Marquis San Carlos, who was a fascinating widower with several children, whom Lola, like the dear creature she is, had taken under her youthful wing. She rushed to see me the moment she heard that I had come, and has already begun to “turn the stones” which are to be turned for me to make my “visit illustrious” here. She has invited us to the opera to-morrow, and gives a soirée for me on the following evening. I confess I am rather curious to see a soirée in Havana. I hope they have ice-chests to sit on and cool conversation. I shall not talk politics; in the first place I can’t, and in the second place because it is heating to the blood.

Lola says her husband is a rabid Spaniard. “A rabid Spaniard!” Could anything be more alarming? No; I will not be the innocent means to bring about discussions, and precipitate a conflict between the Cubans and the Spaniards! I have pinned upon the bed-curtains, next to the precautions for preserving health and the washing-list, the words, “Never talk politics, nor be led into listening to them,” I can always, if pushed into a corner, assume an air of profundity and say, “Is the crisis—” and then stop and look for a word. The politician, if he is anything of a politician, will finish the phrase for me, with the conviction that I know all about it but am diplomatic.

To see the cows in Havana is enough to break your heart. I weep over them in a sort of milky way. I have always seen cows in comfortable stables, with nice, clean straw under their feet and pails full of succulent food placed within easy reach, while at certain intervals a tidy, tender-hearted young milkmaid appears with a three-legged stool and a roomy pail, and extracts what the cow chooses to give her. But here the wiry creatures roam from door to door, and drop a pint or so at each call. It is pitiful to see the poor, degraded things, with their offspring following behind. The latter are graciously allowed to accompany them; but no calls on Nature are permitted, the poor little things are even muzzled!

Whenever I wish to go into the public parlor, where there is a piano, I meet the Countess C——, who has evidently just been singing to her son and her husband.

The first day I met her I approached her with the intention to talk music; but she swept by with a look which withered me up to an autumn leaf and left the room, followed by her music, son, and husband; but afterward, when she saw the Captain of the Port in full gala offering me “Cuba et ses dépendences,” she changed her manner, and then it was my turn! When she asked me if I also knew Count Ceballos, the Governor General, I answered, with a sweet smile, “Of course I do.” “And many other people here?” she asked, “All I think that are worth knowing,” I replied, getting up and leaving the room as abruptly as she had done. It was great fun, though L—— thought I was rude.

We went to the theater with Marquise San Carlos. “All the world is here,” said she. Certainly it looked as if all Havana filled the Tacon, which is a very large theater. Every box was full, and the parquet, as Lola told me, contained the haute volée of the town; the open balconies were sacred to the middle-class, while in the upper gallery were the nobodies, with their children, poor things! decked out with flowers and trying to keep awake through the very tiresome and démodé performance of “Macbeth.” Tamberlik sang. What a glorious voice he has! And when he took the high C (which, if I dare make the joke, did not at all resemble the one Laura and I encountered coming out of New York Harbor) it was all I could do to sit quiet. I wanted to wave something. The prima-donna was assoluta, and must have been pickled in some academy in Italy years ago, for she was not preserved. She acted as stupidly as she sang.

Each box has six seats and are all open, with the eternal lattice-door at the back, and separated from its neighbor by a small partition. It was very cozy, I thought; one could talk right and left, and when the gentlemen circulated about in the entr’actes smoking the inevitable cigarette, which never leaves a Cuban’s lips except to light a fresh one, all the lattice-doors are eagerly opened to them. Lola presented all the haute volée to us, the unpresented just stared. I never realized how much staring a man can do till I saw the Cuban. I mentioned this to Lola, to which she responded, “It is but natural, you are a stranger.”

“Dear friend,” said I, “I have been a stranger in other lands, but I have never seen the like of this. If I was an orang outang there might be some reason, but to a simple mortal, or two simple mortals, like my sister and myself, their stares seem either too flattering or the reverse.”

“Why, my dear,” she replied, “they mean it as the greatest compliment, you may believe me.” And she appealed to her husband, who confirmed what she said. All the gentlemen carry fans and use them with vigor; the ladies are so covered with powder (cascarilla) that you can’t tell a pretty one from an ugly one. If one of them happens to sneeze, there is an avalanche of powder.

Lola showed us her establishment and explained the architecture of a Cuban house. If chance has put a chimney somewhere, they place the kitchen near it. Light and size are of no account, neither is cooking of any importance.

CUBA, February, 1873.

We make such crowds of acquaintances it would be useless to tell you the names. The Marquise San Carlos sent her carriage for us the evening of her soirée. All the company was assembled when we arrived: the Marquis, the Dean of Havana, and two abbés were playing tresillo, a Spanish game of cards.

A group of men stood in the corner and seemed to be talking politics, as far as I could judge from then gesticulations. A few ladies in sweeping trains, and very décolletées, sat looking on listlessly. The daughter of the house was nearing the piano. The Dean said to me, with a sly smile, “Now is the coup de grâce!”—his little joke. She sang, “Robert, toi que j’aime. Grâce! Grâce!” etc. Also she sang the waltz of “Pardon de Ploërmel,” a familiar cheval de bataille of my own, which I was glad to see cantering on the war-path again. In the mean time conversation was at low ebb for poor Laura. She told me some fragments which certainly were peculiar. For instance, she understood the gentle man who had last been talking to her to say that he had been married five times, had twenty-eight children, and had married his eldest son’s daughter as his fifth wife. I afterward ascertained that what he had intended to convey was that he was twenty-eight when he married and had fifteen children. That was bad enough, I thought.

I sang two or three times. The gaiety was brought to rather an abrupt close, as the Marquis received a telegram of his brother’s death. The Abbé went on playing his game, not at all disturbed (such is the force of habit); but we folded our tents and departed.

The hours are sung out in the streets at night, with a little flourish at the end of each verse. I fancy the watchman trusts a good deal to inspiration about this, as my clock—an excellent one—did not at all chime in with his hours. Perhaps he composes his little verse, in which case a margin ought to be allowed him….

The bells in the churches are old and cracked and decrepit.

All the fleet, and any other boat that wants to join in fire off salute, to wake you up in the morning.

I bought to-day the eighth part of a lottery-ticket.

The Captain of the Port thinks his English is better than his French, but sometimes it is very funny. He says: “Don’t take care,” instead of “Never mind”—“The volante is to the door”—“Look to me, I am all proudness”— “You are all my anxiousness.”

The houses are generally not more than one story high, built around an open court, on which all rooms open. In the middle of this is a fountain; no home is complete without a fountain, and no fountain is complete without its surroundings of palms, plants, and flowers. In one of the rooms you can see where the volante reposes for the night. You only see these glories at night. When the heavy bolts are drawn back you and everybody can look in from the street on the family gathering, basking in rocking-chairs around the fountain, and in oriental, somnolent conversation.

CUBA, February.

The annual soirée of the Governor and his wife took place last night. The Captain of the Port came to fetch us. The palace is, like all other official buildings, magnificent on the outside, but simple and severe within. There was a fine staircase, and all the rooms were brilliantly lighted, but very scantily furnished, according to our ideas. We must have gone through at least six rooms before we reached the host and hostess. Every room was exactly alike: in each was a red strip of carpet, half a dozen rocking-chairs placed opposite one another, a cane-bottomed sofa, a table with nothing on it, and walls ditto. There are never any curtains, and nothing is upholstered. This is the typical Cuban salon.

There was an upright piano and a pianist at it when we entered, but the resonance was so overpowering that I could not hear what he was playing. Laura and I (after having been presented to a great many people) were invited to sit in the rocking-chairs. The gentlemen either stood out in the corridor or else behind the chair of a lady and fanned her. Dulces and ices were passed round, and every one partook of them, delighted to have the opportunity to do something else than talk.

When the pianist had finished his Chopin a lady sang, accompanied by her son, who had brought a whole pile of music. She courageously attacked the Cavatina of “Ernani.” The son filled up the places in her vocalization which were weak by playing a dashing chord. She was a stout lady and very warm from her exertions, and the more she exerted herself the more frequently the vacancies occurred; and the son, perspiring at every pore, had difficulty to fill them up with the chords, which became louder and more dashing.

Countess Ceballos, with much hemming and hawing, begged me to sing. I felt all eyes fixed on me; but my eyes were riveted to the little, low piano-stool on which I should have to sit. It seemed miles below the piano-keys. “How could I play on it?” Evidently none but long-bodied performers had been before me, for when I asked for a cushion, in order to raise myself a little, nothing could be found but a very bulgy bed-pillow, which was brought, I think, from the mother country. There was a sort of Andalusian swagger about it.

The dream “that I dwelt in marble halls” was no longer a dream. Here I was singing in one. I sang “Ma Mère était Bohémienne,” and another song which had an easy accompaniment. It took me a little moment to temper my voice to these shorn rooms.

The charge of musketry which followed was deafening, though only gentlemen clapped their hands; ladies don’t rise to such exertion in Cuba. I sang “Beware!” as a parting salute. The Captain of the Port came up, flushed with pride, and said, in his best English, “I am all proudness!”

Panelas (large pieces of frosted sugar, to be melted in water) and other sweets were passed about at intervals.

Shaking hands is a great institution here. No one wears gloves except at the opera, so that one’s hands are in a perpetual state of fermentation, especially after one of these functions, when making acquaintances, expressing thanks, and everything else are done through the medium of the hands. One can literally say that one wrings one’s hands.

We, as the distinguished guests, were led into the supper-room very ceremoniously, and put among the higher strata of society. The buffet was overflowing with Cuban delicacies and dulces. I reveled in the fruit and left the viands severely alone.

After supper we went into the ball-room, and saw for the first time the Cuban waltz, otherwise called Habanera, a curious dance something between a shuffle and a languid glide. The dancers hardly move from the same spot, or at most keep in a very small circle, probably on account of the heat and exertion; and then the dispersing of so much powder, with which every lady covers herself and gets rid of when she moves, has to be considered.

The music has a peculiar measure; I have never heard anything like it before. The instruments seemed mostly to be violins, flutes, clarinets, and a small drum. The bass is very rhythmical and deep, whereas the thin tones of the other instruments are on the very highest notes, which leaves a gap between the upper and lower tones, making such a peculiar effect that the music pursues and haunts you even in your dreams.

We bade our host and hostess good night and, followed by the Captain of the Port, who now was not only “all proudness,” but full of “responsibilitiveness,” left the palace. In passing the music-room I took a farewell look at the bulgy bed-pillow, which was still reposing on the music-stool.

CUBA, February.

DEAR MAMA,—You have no idea of the heat here. I never felt anything so scorching as it was to-day. Let me tell you what happened.

General Lliano came in the morning to ask what Havana could show me. I answered that above all things I wanted to see Morro Castle. He replied that Morro Castle was mine, and that I had only to fix the time and he would take us there.

I did fix it, and fixed it at two o’clock, as a fit hour to visit the Cabaña. I noticed the look of blank despair on our friend’s face, but, not knowing that all Cuba slept between the hours of two and five, I did not realize the piteousness of it. General Lliano begged the Captain of the Port, Señor Català, to accompany us, and both of these gentlemen came in full uniform, as well as their aides-de-camp.

The Captain’s trim little boat was at the wharf near our hotel, and we were rowed over by the governmental crew to the opposite shore, and were met by the Governor of Morro Castle at the landing in the most sweltering heat. I had not forgotten to take the precaution, which anywhere else would have been appropriate, to carry extra wraps, as I told Laura that they were necessary for every water excursion. You may imagine the de-trop-ness of these articles when the thermometer was up at one hundred and twenty in the shade.

We were taken about conscientiously and shown all that there was to be seen: all the dungeon-cells and subterranean passages, and up the hill to see the view, which was very extended and very beautiful. From there we went to the Governor’s house, where we were greeted by his wife and daughter, the wife stiff in black moiré (I mean the moiré was stiff, not she). He placed himself, his wife and daughter, and his mansion at my disposal. I would not have minded taking the old gentleman; but I absolutely refused the lady and the moiré dress.

Dulces were served and some unappetizing-looking ices, which tasted better than they looked. Cakes also were offered us, of which I picked out those which had the least mauve and yellow coatings. When we were presented with some stiff little bouquets we thought it was a signal for departure, and bade adieu to the black moiré and the fast-melting ices.

From the Cabaña we walked along the macadamized road to the Morro Castle, a long distance it seemed to me in the heat; but we left the hard and glaring road and walked over the grass, following the line of the subterranean passage, which made a sort of mound, and finally reached Morro Castle. Here there were more officials, more presentations and more ceremonies, and more dulces and more bouquets.

The view from the ramparts, on which stood the lighthouse, was sublime: the blue sea underneath us, Havana on the left, and the purple mountains in the far distance.

One of the officials asked us whether we wanted to go to the top of the lighthouse. I declined, much to the relief of the assembled company. They say that fish have been thrown up by the spray over the lighthouse; but this seems almost as incredible as the majority of fishy stories. The castle is very high, the ramparts are higher, and the lighthouse crowns everything. The water dashes up through narrow crevices in the rocks, which gives it great force, and possibly might account for the fish story, but I doubt it.

By this time (six o’clock) we were utterly exhausted. Even at this hour the heat was intolerable. We had hoped for a little breeze on the water; but, alas! there was none. Poor Señor Herreras held his foot incased in tight patent-leather boots in his lap, moaning, “Comme je souffre!”

How they all must have blessed me for this idea of mine! I felt ashamed to look them in the face.

Notes

1 Count Hatzfeldt, my brother-in-law.