In the Courts of Memory, 1858-1875 Part 34

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 chateaux were abandoned. Of whom could I ask hospitality? Count Arco, seeing my embarra.s.sment, proposed my staying the night at Pet.i.t 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-a-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 pa.s.sed 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 Mere etait Bohemienne," of Ma.s.se, which had a great success, and at the refrain, "Et moi! j'ai l'ame 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 Madchen," of Schumann, and when I came to the line, "Und wem das just pa.s.sieret, 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 chateau 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 b.u.t.tered toast and a note from Henry announcing the terrible news that Paris was under arms--a revolution (_rien que ca_) 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 Pet.i.t 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 Chateau-Lafitte and all the rare wines Mr. Moulton had bought during the Revolution of 1848, they emptied the casks containing the _Pet.i.t 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 chateau 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 "_supreme 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 evenements_, 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 _caleche_, 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 cus.h.i.+ons, 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, cus.h.i.+onless seats, despatched an officer to try to find a cus.h.i.+on for me. Apparently, however, cus.h.i.+ons 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 chateaux 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 chateau 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 carca.s.s 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 Pet.i.t Val, where I found the landeau of the American Legation, my mother-in-law, and (hobn.o.bbing 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, pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.ser_, after which we were allowed to pa.s.s 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ELIHU WASHBURN United States Minister to France during the Commune]

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 ma.s.sing 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 flouris.h.i.+ng their guns as if they were walking-sticks.

In pa.s.sing 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 s.p.a.ce around the Column was filled with paving-stones and all sorts of debris (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 etes tous tres chic... mais vous ne pa.s.serez pas, tout de meme."

We shook in our shoes.

But Mr. Washburn, equal to the occasion, said something which had the desired effect, and we pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed the Hotel de Ville we saw the red flag of the Communards waving over the Palace. Barricades and cannon filled the s.p.a.ce 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 doc.u.ments, 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 bapteme 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 Plebiscite_), 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RUE DE RIVOLI, WHERE THE HoTEL CONTINENTAL NOW STANDS]

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.