The first letter we received from Uncle Florimond, after the war broke out, was a very hopeful one. He predicted that a month or two at the utmost would suffice for the complete victory of the French, and the utter overthrow and humiliation of the Barbarians, as he called the Germans. “I myself,” he continued, “am, alas, too old to go to the front; but happily I am not needed, our actual forces being more than sufficient. I remain in Paris at the head of a regiment of municipal guards.” His second letter was still hopeful in tone, though he had to confess that for the moment the Prussians seemed to be enjoying pretty good luck. “Mais cela passera”—But that will pass,—he added confidently. His next letter and his next, however, struck a far less cheery note; and then, after the siege of Paris began, his letters ceased coming altogether, for then, of course, Paris was shut off from any communication with the outside world.
With the commencement of the siege of Paris a cloud settled over our home in Norwich, a darkness and a chill that deepened steadily until, toward the end of January, 1871, the city surrendered and was occupied by the enemy. Dread and anxiety dogged our footsteps all day long every day. “Even at this moment, Gregory, while we sit here in peace and safety, thy Uncle Florimond may be dead or dying,” my grandmother would say; then, bowing her head, “O mon Dieu, sois miséricordieux”—O my God, be merciful. Now and then she would start in her chair, and shudder; and upon my demanding the cause, she would reply, “I was thinking what if at that instant he had been shot by a Prussian bullet.” For hours she would sit perfectly motionless, with her hands folded, and her eyes fixed vacantly upon the wall; until all at once, she would cover her face, and begin to cry as if her heart would break. And then, when the bell rang to summon us to meals, “Ah, what a horror!” she would exclaim. “Here are we with an abundance of food and drink, while he whom we love may be perishing of hunger!” But she had to keep her suffering to herself when Uncle Peter was around; otherwise, he would catch her up sharply, saying, “Tush! don't be absurd.”
And so it went on from worse to worse, my grandmother pining away under my very eyes, until the siege ended in 1871, and the war was decided in favor of the Germans. Then, on the fourteenth of February, St. Valentine's Day, our fears lest Uncle Florimond had been killed were relieved. A letter came from him dated February 1st. It was very short. It ran: “Here is a single line, my beloved sister, to tell thee that I am alive and well. To-morrow I shall write thee a real letter”—une vraie lettre.
My grandmother never received his “real letter.” The long strain and suspense had been too much for her. That day she broke down completely, crying at one moment, laughing the next, and all the time talking to herself in a way that frightened me terribly. That night she went to bed in a high fever, and out of her mind. She did not know me, her own grandson, but kept calling me Florimond. I ran for the doctor; but when he saw her, he shook his head.
On the morning of February 16th my dear, dear grandmother died.
CHAPTER II—I MAKE A FRIEND.
I shall not dwell upon my grief. It would be painful, and it would serve no purpose. The spring of 1871 was a very dark and dismal spring to me. It was as though a part—the best part—of myself had been taken from me. To go on living in the same old house, where everything spoke to me of her, where every nook and corner had its association with her, where every chair and table recalled her to me, yet not to hear her voice, nor see her face, nor feel her presence any more, and to realize that she had gone from me forever—I need not tell you how hard it was, nor how my heart ached, nor how utterly lonesome and desolate I felt. I need not tell you how big and bleak and empty the old house seemed.
Sometimes, though, I could not believe that it was really true, that she had really died. It was too dreadful. I could not help thinking that it must be some mistake, some hideous delusion. I would start from my sleep in the middle of the night, and feel sure that it must have been a bad dream, that she must have come back, that she was even now in bed in her room. Then, full of hope, I would get up and go to see. All my pain was suddenly and cruelly renewed when I found her bed cold and empty. I would throw myself upon it, and bury my face in the coverlet, and abandon myself to a passionate outburst of tears and sobs, calling aloud for her: “Grand'-mère, grand'mere, O ma grand'mère chérie!” I almost expected that she would hear me, and be moved to pity for me, and come back.