Part 36 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+vering 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.”