In the Courts of Memory 1858 1875. by L. de Hegermann Lindencrone

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"Oh! that will be nice," gushingly replied Mrs. O----. "Where do you live?"
(Every one of the O----s' phrases commenced with "Oh!")

"I live in the Rue de Courcelles," I answered.

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

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

Mrs. O----'s next question was, "Oh! have you a flat?"

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

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

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

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

The _concierge_ came back with Mr. O----'s card.

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

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

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

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

"How is Mrs. O----?" I said.

He answered with the inevitable "Oh!" "Oh! she's all right. She's outside
in the cab."

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

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

This staggered me considerably. I tried to take _him_ "in" as he stood
before me with traveling cap and umbrella.

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

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

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

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

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

Not he! On the contrary, he tucked his umbrella more firmly under his arm,
and turned to Mademoiselle W----: "Have you got a register?" taking her,
no doubt, for _la dame du comptoir_.

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

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

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

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

"Oh! that'll be all right. You have perhaps a maid in the house?"

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

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

I asked him, "How is the baby?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What! Can't you take us in? We counted on coming to your hotel."

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

I explained to my guest his mistake. Instead of saying, "Oh! that's all
right," he said, "Well, I'll be blessed," and without wasting any more
time than for a hasty good-by he marched out to join the tired Maria, the
baby, the nurse, and Arthur. We watched them as they drove off, all gazing
out of the window at the hotel which was _not_ a hotel.

May Allah protect them!

_March 19th._

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

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

I thought we never would arrive!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My pretty pavilion! If you could have seen it!

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

The officers had coffee served under the _charmille_.

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

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

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

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

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

There were no trains at all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I mourned the beautiful and stately Lebanon cedar!

_March 18th._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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