May 8th.
Though I have so much time on my hands (I never have had so much), I really have not the heart to write of all the horrors we hear of and the anxieties of our daily life. Besides, you will probably have heard, through unprejudiced newspapers, all that is happening here, and know the true facts before this dismal letter reaches you. And who knows if letters leave Paris regularly in the chaotic state of disorder and danger we are now in?
I cannot write history, because I am living in it. I can only tell you the news which Louis gathers when he does his errands, coming home with the wildest tales, of which we can only believe the half.
I have read somewhere that some one lived "in a dead white dawn of thought." I have not the slightest idea what "a dead white dawn of thought" can be (I have so little imagination); but whatever it is, I feel as if I was living in it now. I don't remember in all my life to have stagnated like this.
We are glad Mrs. Moulton left Paris when she did, and is now in a bourne of safety at Dinard, taking my place with the children while I take hers in the Rue de Courcelles.
This is no sacrifice on my part; the existence we are leading now interests me intensely, being so utterly different from anything I have ever known, and I do not regret having this little glimpse into the unknown.
I cannot go to the ambulances, as we (Mademoiselle and I) do not dare to walk, and driving is out of the question.
I have not seen Auber for many days; Beaumont has not been here either, and we do not know where he is.
They still go on issuing some official newspapers, though whether what they contain is true, or how far the imaginations of the editors have lured them into the paths of fiction, we cannot tell. If we live through this débâcle I count on history to tell us what we really have been living through. However, truth or fiction, I am thankful that we have the newspapers, for how would I ever have a moment's sleep if I did not listen to Mr. Moulton's intoning the Moniteur and the Journal des Débats (the Figaro has been suppressed) to us, and we did not have our three-handed drowsy whist to doze over.
May 9th.