DEAR MAMA,—You will be surprised to see that I am in Paris; but you will understand why when I tell you that I received a letter from Mrs. Moulton to this effect: "If you wish to go to Petit Val to look after the things you left there when you went to Dinard last August, you had better come to Paris without delay, as the trains are running regularly now." The trains may have been running regularly (I left Dinard the next day), but they were certainly not running on time, for we missed all connections, and only arrived at Rennes after seven o'clock, too late to catch the evening train for Paris. The fine omnibus at the station made me imagine that it belonged to an equally fine hotel, but the hotel proved to be anything but fine. It was dreadfully dirty and shabby, and filled to overflowing. It was with the greatest difficulty I was able to secure a room for myself. My grumbling maid had to content herself with the sofa. The salle à manger was thronged with officers clanking their swords on the brick floor and all talking at once. I passed a sleepless night, being kept awake by the loud and incessant conversations in the corridor and the continual tramping of soldiers under my window. We started for Paris the next morning at eight o'clock. The train was crowded with people who, like myself, were eager to return home after so many months of anxious waiting. In all the stations through which we passed one saw nothing but soldiers, their ragged uniforms hanging on their emaciated forms; their feet—which had been frozen in January (poor things!)—were still bandaged, and hardly any of them possessed shoes. They did look, indeed, the picture of abject dejection and misery.
At Le Mans, the place where we stopped for luncheon, the soldiers were lying about on the brick pavement of the station, too tired and worn out to move, and presenting the saddest sight it has ever fallen to my lot to witness. They were waiting for the cattle vans to take them away. In these they would be obliged to stand until they reached Paris and its hospitals. Every one of the travelers was anxious to alleviate their misery in some way, by offering them cigars, food, and money. My heart bled for the poor creatures, and I gave them all I had in my purse, and my luncheon also. They represented the debris of Faidherbe's army, which of all the troops had seen the most desperate fighting during the war. All the trains we passed were packed tight with soldiers, herded together like cattle, patient misery painted on their pale, tired faces.
Hungry and penniless I arrived at last in Paris, where I was delighted to see a healthy, normal-looking person in the shape of my brother-in-law, Henry, who met me at the station. He had plenty to tell me of his experiences since last September. He had been living at Petit Val throughout the whole campaign, and was still there looking after our interests, faisant la navette between Petit Val, Paris, and Versailles at his will. He had free passes for all these places. On my arrival at the Rue de Courcelles I found the family well, Mrs. Moulton knitting as usual, Mademoiselle Wissembourg napping, and Mr. Moulton reading the Journal des Débats out loud in his peculiar French.
I thought of the "Brook," by Tennyson: "Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever." The family had not eaten cats and dogs during the siege as, according to the newspapers, other people had done.
Mr. Moulton having been in Paris at the time of the Revolution of 1848, and knowing about revolutions, had had the forethought to lay in a stock of provisions, such as ham, biscuit, rice, etc., and all sorts of canned things, which he deemed would be sufficient for all their requirements. They had even given dinner-parties limited to a very choice few, who sometimes brought welcome additions in the shape of other canned delicacies.
When the family moved from Petit Val to Paris last September, the French Government had given them permission to keep one or two cows. They also brought a calf, a sheep, and some chickens with them. The cows and the sheep shared the stables with the horses, while the chickens were let loose in the conservatory, and were expected to lay enough eggs to pay for their board. The gardener had cleverly converted the conservatory into a sort of kitchen garden, and had planted some useful vegetables, such as radishes, carrots, salad, etc., so you see the family took good care that it should have enough to eat, and mice and rats only appeared on the table after the repasts.
PARIS, March 16, 1871.
DEAR MAMA,—This has been a very fatiguing day for me, so you will only receive a short letter.
Paul [Footnote: Count Hatzfeldt, my brother-in-law.] invited Mrs. Moulton and me to come to Versailles, and offered us a cup of tea as an inducement. You know Paul is Count Bismarck's private secretary, having been with him and the German sovereign during the entire war. He is still at Versailles, but expects to leave for Berlin one of these first days. He came to fetch us at the station with the fat ponies and the basket-wagon (the ponies had escaped the fate of other fat ponies, and they had not furnished steaks for famished Parisians, but continued to trot complacently about, as of old). Fortunately they were not too fat to carry us through the park at a lively pace, and land us at Paul's palatial residence. It seemed strange to see German officers, in their tight- fitting uniforms, strolling leisurely about in the park, where before I had only seen the rather slovenly pious-pious on holidays, when the fountains played by day and the fireworks by night.
The park looked enchanting in its spring toilette, and made me think of the last time I was here. Could it have been only last May? It seems years ago!