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 passed 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 shivering 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 débâcle. I said, "Débâcle or no débâcle, 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 Clément 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.