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 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 passerez 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 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 Hotel 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 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.



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.-Honore 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 Debats 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 Hotel de Ville.

There was a platform built in front of the facade, 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 Liberte, Egalite, and Fraternite. 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 Pene thought if he could collect enough people to follow him he would lead them to the barricades in the Place Vendome, 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 Pene 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 coupe 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 Vendome 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 Pene, his hat in his outstretched hand, followed by a crowd of men, women, and children, looked the picture of life, health, and enthusiasm.

De Pene, 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 armes." 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 Pene 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-cochere 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 Assemblee, 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 seances 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 Grevy, 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 resout 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 Grevy 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 debacle. I said, "Debacle or no debacle, 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 Clement 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 etrangers. 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 Clement 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'Odeon, also that the Place Vendome 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'Imperatrice, where the lovely Empress drove every day in her caleche a 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'Imperatrice—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-Elysees, and quietly march out again.

We visited the Pre 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 Freischuetz."

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 Comite 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- la. One should (she said) not brusquer them, nor provoke them in any way, but smile kindly at them and en generale 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, chere 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 Republique. 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 Egalite, Fraternite, Liberte, 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 pale; I felt pale, and think I must have looked very pale, for he said: "Vous etes bien pale, Madame. Voudriez-vous quelque chose a 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 etes 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 etre bien etonne 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 a un bal a l'Hotel de Ville l'annee derniere."

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 Hotel de Ville with two strange men in the coupe. 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 coupe, which he did.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the two men. "Faites ca, 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 Felix 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!"

Felix 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 Felix 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 coupe, and the others refusing to get out.

"A la maison!" shouted Henry.

"A 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 coupe and ordered him to drive to the Hotel de Ville, where Felix 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 legumes (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 "Poeme 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 Maitre, 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, Bergere," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chante tout l'ete," 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 maitre took the cher enfant, or rather the cher enfant led the maitre 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-cochere, 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 parfumee." 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 garcon.

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 ecrevisses. Mademoiselle and I ate with an astounding appetite; but Auber, who had not eaten a dejeuner 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'a mettre les paroles sur le pupitre, prendre mon chapeau et sortir. Quand je revenais la musique etait toute ecrite, 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 commencants.

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 etre gagne par la tristesse et sans penser que de morceaux a 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 etes 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 ecrit entre deux baillements. Je pourrais," he went on, "vous montrer tel passage ou ma plume a fait un long zigzag parce que mes yeux se sont fermes et ma tete 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 a Vienne; moi triste et tourmente."

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 cafes, 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 debacle 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 Debats (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 Comite 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 honnetes 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, "Ca m'est egal, 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 Medje, 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 requisitionnement, 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 Valerien, 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 cure 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 cure 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'echafaud."

It appears that Felix 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. Honore, 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 Vendome 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 voila. 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 Vendome:



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 a 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'Ecole 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 petroleurs and petroleuses 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-a-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 declaration d'expedition du chemin de fer d'Orleans). 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:

Floreal, an 79 [the way they date things in republics]. Fusillez l'Archeveque et les otages; incendiez les Tuileries et le Palais Royal, et repliez-vous sur la rue Germain-des-Pres.

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 legalite, nous faisons de la revolution." Some ruffian in the mob cried out the word "liberte," 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 grace (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-Elysees 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. Honore. 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. Honore 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 galere!

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 Ploermel" (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 pieces montees), 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!