As we drove by I thought of the famous ball given at the Tuileries last May (Le bal de Plébiscite), the most splendid thing of its kind one had ever seen.
And now! The Tuileries deserted, empty, the Emperor a prisoner, the Empress a fugitive! All France demoralized! All its prestige gone! One wonders how such things can be.
[Illustration: RUE DE RIVOLI, WHERE THE HÔTEL CONTINENTAL NOW STANDS]
Mr. Washburn said he was not sorry to have remained in Paris (an experience he would on no account have missed). He thought he had been of service to his own country and also to France.
Mrs. Moulton remarked, "What would those shut up in Paris have done without you?"
"Oh! I was only a post-office," he answered.
"The only poste restante in Paris," I said under my breath; but I did not dare utter anything so frivolous at the moment.
In the Faubourg St.-Honoré things were much quieter, though there were numbers of soldiers slouching about with their muskets pointing every which way. When we arrived at last in the Rue de Courcelles (it had taken us four hours) all was as quiet as Sunday in Boston.
Mr. Moulton had been almost crazy with anxiety; but the thought that we were sailing under the American colors had calmed him somewhat, and his past emotions did not prevent him from reading the Journal des Débats to us. I slipped off to bed tired out, but thankful not to be any longer "under protection."
March 20th.