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

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This is my first trial, and I have already broken down!

I told him I would finish the letter and send it to his mother, "Frau
Wanda Schultz, Biebrich am Rhein," which I did, adding a little postscript
that I was looking after her son, and would take the best care of him. I
hope she got the letter.

The doctor advised the patient to sleep, so I left him and went to another
bed, which they indicated.

This was an American, a newspaper reporter from Camden, New Jersey. He had
joined Faidherbe's army in February, and had been wounded in the leg. He
was glad to talk English. "They do things mighty well over here", said he;
"but I guess I'll have to have my leg cut off, all the same."

When I put the question to him, "What can I do for you?" he replied, "If
you have any papers or illustrated news or pictures, I should like to see
them." I said I would bring some to-morrow.

He was very cheerful and very pleasant to talk with.

On reaching the Rue de Courcelles we found Mr. Washburn.

He was utterly disgusted with the Communards. He even became violent when
he spoke of their treatment of Generals Lecomte and Clément Thomas. He
rather took their defense during the first days of the Commune, saying
they were acting in good faith; but now I think he has other ideas about
them.

Auber also came at five o'clock; he gets more and more despondent, and is
very depressed. He had heard that the Communards had commenced pillaging
in the Quartier de l'Odéon, also that the Place Vendôme was being
plundered.

To what are we coming?

The next day I found my little German soldier decidedly worse. He had
received a letter from the _Mutter_, which he asked me to read to him. I
tried my best to overcome the difficulties of the writing and spelling,
and made many mistakes, causing the poor little fellow to smile. He
corrected me every time very conscientiously.

I did feel so sorry for him; he seemed so gentle and never complained of
his sufferings, which must have been intense. The nurse, feeling his
pulse, announced an increase of fever, and thought he had better rest,
When I said, in as cheerful a voice as I could assume; "Well, good-by for
to-day," he said, "To-morrow you will come?" Alas! there was to be no to-
morrow for him.

My other patient, Mr. Parker, appeared very comfortable, and immensely
pleased to see that I had not forgotten to bring the newspapers and
pictures. I also took a chess-board, thinking to amuse him. The doctor
looked dismayed when he saw me carrying a chessboard under my arm.
"Madame," he said, "I think that chess is too fatiguing for an invalid;
perhaps something milder would be better. I have always understood," he
smilingly added, "that chess is a game for people in the most robust
health, and with all their mental faculties."

I felt utterly crushed. This was the way my attempts to divert the sick
and the wounded were received! I thought how little I understood the
character of hospital work. Mr. Parker, evidently feeling sorry for my
discomfiture, told the doctor it would amuse him to play checkers if he
would allow it. The doctor consented to this, and I sent Louis off to buy
a box of checkers. Mr. Parker and I played two games, and he beat me each
game, which put him in splendid spirits, and I think did him no harm.

Mrs. Moulton and I drove out to the Bois after the ambulance visit. I had
not been there since last August. How changed it was! The broad Avenue de
l'Impératrice, where the lovely Empress drove every day in her _calèche
à la Daumont_, surrounded by the magnificent _Cent Gardes_, is now almost
impossible to drive in. The trees are cut down, and the roads full of
ditches and stones.

Rochefort, who was in power while the siege was in progress, suggested
some medieval methods too childish for belief--to annihilate the whole
German army if they should enter Paris. He had ordered pitfalls in the
Avenue de l'Impératrice--holes about three feet deep--in which he
intended the German cavalry to tumble headlong. He thought, probably, the
army would come in the night and not see them. Rochefort had also built
towers, as in the time of the Crusaders, from which hot oil and stones
were to be poured on the enemy. Did you ever hear of anything so idiotic?
He little dreamt that the German army would take possession of Paris,
bivouac in the Champs-Élysées, and quietly march out again.

We visited the Pré Catalan, where last year fashionable society met every
day to flirt and drink milk. That is, as you may imagine, minus cows.
These had, like all the other animals, been eaten and digested long ago.
Thick hides not being at a premium, the hippopotamus and rhinoceros had
been kindly spared to posterity.

_March 29th._

To-day I went to the ambulances as usual. The doctor greeted me with his
usual kindness; he said there was an invalid for whom I was needed, and
conducted me to his bedside.

My new patient was a German officer about thirty-five years old. He said
he came from Munich. I told him about Count Arco (also from Munich), whom
he knew, and about Petit Val, in which he seemed interested. We talked
music, and he became quite excited when he spoke of Wagner, to whom,
according to him, no one could compare. I did not want to discuss this
wide subject; I merely remarked that Mendelssohn and Weber had their good
points, which he allowed, but replied that they were utterly out of
fashion. I did not agree with him, and, to show that Weber was a genius, I
hummed the prayer from "Der Freischütz."

There was a visible movement among the white-covered beds, and the nurses
frowned, while the doctor came hurriedly toward me, holding up his finger
warningly.

I really have no talent for nursing. It seems that everything I do is
wrong.

The German officer said, when I went away, "I will convince you to-morrow,
when you come, that Wagner is the greatest genius living." I answered that
undoubtedly he would, and bade him good-by.

When I reached the carriage I found a small crowd collected around it, and
I hurried to get in, and hardly had time to shut the door when Louis
whipped the horse, and we were galloping away toward home. Once there,
Louis told me that he would respectfully advise me not to go in the
carriage with a coachman in livery again. Anything, he said, in the form
of luxury or wealth excited the mob, and no one could tell what it might
do when excited.

Therefore we decided to abolish the liveries for the future. When we
reached home we found that we were one horse less, the Communards having
taken it out of the stables without further ado than a mild protest from
the frightened _concierge_. The Comité de Transport promised to return the
horse when no longer needed.

[Illustration: RAOUL RIGAULT]

_March 31st._

DEAR MAMA,--Mr. Moulton thought it better that I should leave Paris. But
to leave Paris one must have a passport from the Prefect of Police. He
consulted Mr. Washburn about it, who not only consented to give me a card
of introduction to Raoul Rigault (whom he knew personally), but offered to
send me to the prefecture in his own carriage.

This morning at eleven the carriage was at the door, and with it the
promised card of introduction. I noticed that the coachman had no livery,
nor did he wear the cockade of the Legation; neither was there any
servant. I suppose Mr. Washburn thought it safer for us to drive through
the streets without creating any unnecessary notice or running the risk of
being insulted.

Mademoiselle W---- accompanied me, and with her the omnipresent bag filled
with chocolates, bonbons, etc., for any unforeseen event.

On our way she discoursed on the manner one ought to treat _ces gens-
là_. One should (she said) not _brusquer_ them, nor provoke them in any
way, but smile kindly at them and _en générale_ be very polite.

I don't know how many times I had to pull out my _billet de circulation_
before we reached the prefecture.

It was a long time since I had been down the Rue de Rivoli, and I was
disgusted when I saw the half-clad half-starved soldiers, in their dirty
boots and down-trodden shoes, slouching about with their torn uniforms and
carrying their rusty guns any which way.

At last we arrived, and we were about to descend from the carriage, when a
ragamuffin of a Communist, shouldering his gun and looking all-important,
sprang forward to prevent us; but on showing my "billet," he nodded his
head, saying, "C'est bien."

At the mere sight of him Mademoiselle W---- said, "Don't you think, _chère
Madame_, that it is better to return home?" I answered: "Nonsense! Now
that we are here, let us go through with it."

A few steps farther an awkward soldier happened to drop his gun on the
pavement. At the sound of this, poor Mademoiselle W---- almost sank on her
knees with fright.

The small gate next to the large iron one was opened, and we entered the
courtyard. This was filled with soldiers. A sentinel stood before the door
of the large corridor which led to the Prefect's office. Inside this room
stood a guard, better dressed and seemingly a person of more importance.
On showing Mr. Washburn's card, I said to him that I had come here for the
purpose of getting a passport, and would like to speak to Monsieur Rigault
himself.

We went toward the door, which he opened, but on seeing Mademoiselle W----
he stopped us and asked: "Who is that lady? Has she a card also?"

We had never thought of this! I was obliged to say that she had not, but
she had come to accompany me.

He said, rather bluntly, "If she has no card, I cannot allow her to
enter."

Here was a pretty plight. I told him, in the suave manner which
Mademoiselle W---- had recommended to me, that Mr. Washburn would have
included this lady's name on my card had he foreseen that there would be
any difficulty in allowing her to follow me as my companion.

"Madame, I have strict orders; I cannot disobey them."

I did not wish him to disobey them; but, nevertheless, I whispered to
Mademoiselle W----, "Don't leave me, stay close by me," thinking the man
would not, at the last moment, refuse to allow her to remain with me.

Alas! the door opened. I entered; the door closed behind me; I looked back
and saw I was alone. No Mademoiselle in sight! My heart sank.

I was escorted from room to room, each door guarded by an uncouth soldier,
and shut promptly as I passed.

I must have gone through at least seven rooms before I reached the
sanctuary in which Monsieur Raoul Rigault held his _audience_.

This autocrat, whom the republicans (to their eternal shame be it said)
had placed in power after the 4th of September, is (and was _then_) the
most successful specimen of a scamp that the human race has ever produced.
At this moment Rigault has more power than any one else in Paris.

When the guard opened the door he pointed to the table where Raoul Rigault
was seated writing (seemingly very absorbed). He appeared to me to be a
man of about thirty-five or forty years old, short, thick-set, with a
full, round face, a bushy black beard, a sensuous mouth, and a cynical
smile. He wore tortoise-shell eyeglasses; but these could not hide the
wicked expression of his cunning eyes.

I looked about me and noticed that the room had very little furniture;
there was only the table at which the Prefect sat and two or three plain
chairs. Just such a chamber as Robespierre might have occupied during
_his République_. There were two gendarmes standing behind Rigault's
chair waiting for orders, and a man (of whom I did not take particular
notice) leaning against the mantelpiece at the other end of the room.

I approached the table, waiting like a culprit for the all-powerful
Rigault to look up and notice me.

But he did not; he continued to be occupied with what he was doing. So I
ventured to break the ice by saying, "Monsieur, I have come to procure a
passport, and here is Mr. Washburn's card (the American Minister) to tell
you who I am."

He took the card without condescending to look at it, and went on writing.

Getting impatient at his impertinence, I ventured again to attract his
attention, and I said, as politely as possible (and as Mademoiselle could
have wished), "Will you not kindly give me this passport, as I wish to
leave Paris as soon as possible?"

Thereupon he took up the card, and, affecting the "Marat" style, said,
"Does the _citoyenne_ wish to leave Paris? _Pourquoi?_"

I answered that I was obliged to leave Paris for different reasons.

He replied, with what he thought a seductive smile, "I should think Paris
would be a very attractive place for a pretty woman like yourself."

How could I make him understand that I had come for a passport and not for
conversation?

At this moment I confess I began to feel dreadfully nervous, seeing the
powerless situation in which I was placed, and I saw in imagination
visions of prison-cells, handcuffs, and all the horrors which belong to
revolutions. I heard the sonorous clock in the tower strike the hour, and
realized that only minutes, not hours, had passed since I had been waiting
in this dreadful place.

"Monsieur," I began once more, "I am rather in haste, and would thank you
if you would give me my passport."

Upon which he took Mr. Washburn's so-much-looked-at card, scrutinized it,
and then scrutinized me.

"Are you La Citoyenne Moulton?"

I answered, "Yes."

"American?"

I replied I was, and _in petto_--mighty glad I was to be so.

"Does the American Minister know you personally?"

"Yes, very well."

"Why do you wish to deprive us of your presence in Paris?"

I repeated that my affairs required my presence elsewhere.

I saw he was taking no steps toward making out my passport, and I became
more agitated and unnerved and said, "If it is impossible for you,
Monsieur, to give me the passport, I will inform Mr. Washburn of the fact,
and he will no doubt come to you himself for it."

This seemed to arouse him, for he opened a drawer and took out a blank to
be filled for a passport, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, as it
he was bored to death.

Now followed the most hateful and trying _quart d'heure_ I ever passed in
my life. I fancy Raoul Rigault had never been in the society of a lady
(perhaps he had never seen one), and his innate coarseness seemed to make
him gloat over the present situation, and as a true republican, whose
motto is _Égalité, Fraternité, Liberté_, he flattered himself he was on an
equality with me, therefore he could take any amount of liberty. He took
advantage of the unavoidable questions that belong to the making out of a
passport, and showed a diabolical pleasure in tormenting _la citoyenne_
who stood helplessly before him.

When it came to the description and the enumerating of my features, he was
more obnoxious than I can express. Peering across the table to see whether
my eyes were brown or black, or my hair black or brown, he never lost an
opportunity to make a fawning remark before writing it down. He described
my _teint_ as _pâle_; I felt pale, and think I must have looked very pale,
for he said: "Vous êtes bien pâle, Madame. Voudriez-vous quelque chose à
boire?" Possibly he may have meant to be kind; but I saw BORGIA written
all over him. I refused his offer with effusion.

When he asked me my age, he said, _insinuatingly_, "Vous êtes bien jeune,
Madame, pour circuler seule ainsi dans Paris."

I answered, "Je ne suis pas seule, Monsieur. Mon mari [I thought it best
to tell this lie] m'attend dans la voiture de Monsieur Washburn et il doit
être bien étonné de ma longue absence."

I considered this extremely diplomatic.

Turning to the man at the mantelpiece, he said, "Grousset, do you think we
ought to allow the _citoyenne_ to leave Paris?"

Grousset (the man addressed) stepped forward and looked at Mr. Washburn's
card, saying something in an undertone to Rigault, which caused him
instantly to change his manner toward me (I don't know which was worse,
his overbearing or his fawning manner).

"You must forgive me," he said, "if I linger over your visit here. We
don't often have such luck, do we, Grousset?"

I thought I should faint!

Probably the man Grousset noticed my emotion, for he came to my rescue and
said, politely, "Madame Moulton, j'ai eu l'honneur de vous voir à un bal à
l'Hôtel de Ville l'année dernière."

I looked up with surprise. He was a very handsome fellow, and I remembered
quite well having seen him somewhere; but did not remember where. I was
happy indeed to find any one who knew me and could vouch for me, and told
him so. He smiled. "I venture to present myself to you, Madame. I am
Pascal Grousset. Can I be of any service to you?"

"Indeed you can," I answered, eagerly. "Please tell Monsieur Rigault to
give me my passport; it seems to have been a colossal undertaking to get
it." I preferred the _Pascal_ G. to the _Rascal_ R.

Grousset and Rigault had a little conversation together, and presto! my
longed-for passport lay before me to sign. No Elsa ever welcomed her
Lohengrin coming out of the clouds as I did my Lohengrin coming from the
mantelpiece.

I signed my name quickly enough; Rigault put the official seal on it, and,
rising from his chair, politely handed it to me.

Before taking my leave of the now over-polite Prefect, I asked him how
much there was to pay.

He courteously replied, "Rien, absolument rien," and added he was glad to
be of any service to me; and if there was anything more he could do, I had
only to command.

I did not say that I thought he had done enough for one day, but I bowed
him good-by and turned to go out.

Mr. Pascal Grousset offered me his arm, begging to take me to my carriage.
The gendarmes threw open doors, and we retraced our steps through all the
different rooms until we reached the one where I had left Mademoiselle
W----, whom I expected to find waiting for me in agonizing anxiety.

But what did I see?

Mademoiselle sound asleep on the bench, bag, smile, and all, gazed at and
guarded by the dreaded soldiers.

"I am afraid," said Pascal Grousset, "that you have been greatly annoyed
this morning. Your interview with the Prefect must have been most painful
to you!"

"I confess," I said, "it has never been my fate to have been placed in
just such a situation, and I thank you, _de tout mon coeur_, for your
assistance. You certainly saved my life, for I doubt if I could have lived
another moment in that room."

"Perhaps more than your life, Madame; more than you imagine, at any rate."

As he put us in the carriage, he looked puzzled when he saw _le mari_ I
had said was waiting for me; but a smile of comprehension swept over his
face as he met my guilty glance. He apparently understood my reasons.

On reaching home, tired, exhausted, and oh! so hungry, we found Mr.
Washburn. He and Mr. Moulton had been very anxious about me, picturing to
themselves all sorts of horrors, and when I told them what really had
happened they felt that their anxieties had not been far from the truth.
Mr. Washburn laughed at the subterfuges I had used and the lie I had told.
They examined my passport as a great curiosity, and noticed it had
_Valable pour un an_.

Mr. Washburn said, "Evidently they intend this sort of thing to go on
forever."

_23d of April._

Mrs. Moulton has decided to leave for Dinard, and starts the day after to-
morrow.

We have been assured that the train would make connections as far at least
as Rennes; beyond that no one could tell whether they went regularly or
not.

Mrs. Moulton had procured a red _billet de circulation_ with a date, a
white one without a date, Mr. Washburn's card, and different passes. She
was certainly well prepared for any emergency. As there was only one day
train, she was obliged to take that (it left al seven o'clock A.M.).

A desire to see some of her friends before her departure spurred Mrs.
Moulton to invite them to dinner. Our friends are now so few and far
between that it is not difficult to know whom to choose or where to find
them.

The result was a miscellaneous company, as you will see: Mr. Washburn,
Auber, Massenet, Beaumont, and Delsarte. Our family consisted of Mr. and
Mrs. Moulton, Henry, Mademoiselle Wissembourg, and myself.

Mrs. Moulton asked Henry to bring with him some green peas from Petit Val
to eke out the chef's meager menu.

With the aid of a friendly officer, Henry managed to pick a "whole bushel"
(he always exaggerates), which, with his toilet articles, completely
filled his large _sac de voyage_. Besides this, he had a portmanteau
with his evening attire, and a package which Count Arco wished to send to
Paris.

Count Arco ordered out the "ancient and honorable relic" of our landau
(the same I had used on the famous 18th of March) and the artillery
horses, with their heavy dragoons, in order to deposit Henry and his bags
at the pontoon bridge, where a man was found to take them as far as the
station.

To divert himself while tramping along with his _sac de voyage_, Henry
shelled the peas, casting the pods behind him, after the manner of Tom
Thumb, never dreaming that the peas thus left to chum familiarly with
his toilet things might suffer from the contact and get a new flavor. He
was surprised to see how the "bushel" had diminished in volume since it
started.

Mrs. Moulton had promised to send the carriage to meet _l'envoi
extraordinaire_; but Henry, finding none, started to walk toward home,
followed by a porter carrying his extra baggage.

What was Henry's astonishment at seeing Louis drive out of the Hôtel de
Ville with two strange men in the coupé. Henry hailed Louis, who, though
scared out of his wits, pulled up obediently, disregarding the angry
voices from inside. Henry opened the door and addressed the strangers
politely, "Messieurs, this is my carriage; I beg you to alight."

"Par exemple!" cried the two, in chorus. "Who are you?"

"I happen to be the proprietor of the carriage," replied Henry, assuming
an important air, "and if you decline to leave it I shall call the Sergent
de Ville." Then turning to the porter, he told him to put the bags in the
coupé, which he did.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the two men. "_Faites ça, mon bon!_ that would be
amusing. Do you know who we are?"

Henry did not, and said he was not particularly anxious to know.

"This is Monsieur Félix Pyat, and I am his secretary. Here is a _bon_ for
your carriage," handing Henry the card.

"Well," said Henry, pulling out his card, "here is my card, here are my
passes, and here [pointing to Louis] is my coachman!"

Félix Pyat said, "How do we know that this is your carriage?"

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

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

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

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

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

"À la maison!" shouted Henry.

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

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

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

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

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