[Ill.u.s.tration: RAOUL RIGAULT]

_March 31st._

DEAR MAMA,--Mr. Moulton thought it better that I should leave Paris. But to leave Paris one must have a pa.s.sport from the Prefect of Police. He consulted Mr. Washburn about it, who not only consented to give me a card of introduction to Raoul Rigault (whom he knew personally), but offered to send me to the prefecture in his own carriage.

This morning at eleven the carriage was at the door, and with it the promised card of introduction. I noticed that the coachman had no livery, nor did he wear the c.o.c.kade of the Legation; neither was there any servant. I suppose Mr. Washburn thought it safer for us to drive through the streets without creating any unnecessary notice or running the risk of being insulted.

Mademoiselle W---- accompanied me, and with her the omnipresent bag filled with chocolates, bonbons, etc., for any unforeseen event.

On our way she discoursed on the manner one ought to treat _ces gens- la_. One should (she said) not _brusquer_ them, nor provoke them in any way, but smile kindly at them and _en generale_ be very polite.

I don't know how many times I had to pull out my _billet de circulation_ before we reached the prefecture.

It was a long time since I had been down the Rue de Rivoli, and I was disgusted when I saw the half-clad half-starved soldiers, in their dirty boots and down-trodden shoes, slouching about with their torn uniforms and carrying their rusty guns any which way.

At last we arrived, and we were about to descend from the carriage, when a ragam.u.f.fin of a Communist, shouldering his gun and looking all-important, sprang forward to prevent us; but on showing my "billet," he nodded his head, saying, "C'est bien."

At the mere sight of him Mademoiselle W---- said, "Don't you think, _chere Madame_, that it is better to return home?" I answered: "Nonsense! Now that we are here, let us go through with it."

A few steps farther an awkward soldier happened to drop his gun on the pavement. At the sound of this, poor Mademoiselle W---- almost sank on her knees with fright.

The small gate next to the large iron one was opened, and we entered the courtyard. This was filled with soldiers. A sentinel stood before the door of the large corridor which led to the Prefect's office. Inside this room stood a guard, better dressed and seemingly a person of more importance.

On showing Mr. Washburn's card, I said to him that I had come here for the purpose of getting a pa.s.sport, and would like to speak to Monsieur Rigault himself.

We went toward the door, which he opened, but on seeing Mademoiselle W---- he stopped us and asked: "Who is that lady? Has she a card also?"

We had never thought of this! I was obliged to say that she had not, but she had come to accompany me.

He said, rather bluntly, "If she has no card, I cannot allow her to enter."

Here was a pretty plight. I told him, in the suave manner which Mademoiselle W---- had recommended to me, that Mr. Washburn would have included this lady's name on my card had he foreseen that there would be any difficulty in allowing her to follow me as my companion.

"Madame, I have strict orders; I cannot disobey them."

I did not wish him to disobey them; but, nevertheless, I whispered to Mademoiselle W----, "Don't leave me, stay close by me," thinking the man would not, at the last moment, refuse to allow her to remain with me.

Alas! the door opened. I entered; the door closed behind me; I looked back and saw I was alone. No Mademoiselle in sight! My heart sank.

I was escorted from room to room, each door guarded by an uncouth soldier, and shut promptly as I pa.s.sed.

I must have gone through at least seven rooms before I reached the sanctuary in which Monsieur Raoul Rigault held his _audience_.

This autocrat, whom the republicans (to their eternal shame be it said) had placed in power after the 4th of September, is (and was _then_) the most successful specimen of a scamp that the human race has ever produced.

At this moment Rigault has more power than any one else in Paris.

When the guard opened the door he pointed to the table where Raoul Rigault was seated writing (seemingly very absorbed). He appeared to me to be a man of about thirty-five or forty years old, short, thick-set, with a full, round face, a bushy black beard, a sensuous mouth, and a cynical smile. He wore tortoise-sh.e.l.l eyegla.s.ses; but these could not hide the wicked expression of his cunning eyes.

I looked about me and noticed that the room had very little furniture; there was only the table at which the Prefect sat and two or three plain chairs. Just such a chamber as Robespierre might have occupied during _his Republique_. There were two gendarmes standing behind Rigault's chair waiting for orders, and a man (of whom I did not take particular notice) leaning against the mantelpiece at the other end of the room.

I approached the table, waiting like a culprit for the all-powerful Rigault to look up and notice me.

But he did not; he continued to be occupied with what he was doing. So I ventured to break the ice by saying, "Monsieur, I have come to procure a pa.s.sport, and here is Mr. Washburn's card (the American Minister) to tell you who I am."

He took the card without condescending to look at it, and went on writing.

Getting impatient at his impertinence, I ventured again to attract his attention, and I said, as politely as possible (and as Mademoiselle could have wished), "Will you not kindly give me this pa.s.sport, as I wish to leave Paris as soon as possible?"

Thereupon he took up the card, and, affecting the "Marat" style, said, "Does the _citoyenne_ wish to leave Paris? _Pourquoi?_"

I answered that I was obliged to leave Paris for different reasons.

He replied, with what he thought a seductive smile, "I should think Paris would be a very attractive place for a pretty woman like yourself."

How could I make him understand that I had come for a pa.s.sport and not for conversation?

At this moment I confess I began to feel dreadfully nervous, seeing the powerless situation in which I was placed, and I saw in imagination visions of prison-cells, handcuffs, and all the horrors which belong to revolutions. I heard the sonorous clock in the tower strike the hour, and realized that only minutes, not hours, had pa.s.sed since I had been waiting in this dreadful place.

"Monsieur," I began once more, "I am rather in haste, and would thank you if you would give me my pa.s.sport."

Upon which he took Mr. Washburn's so-much-looked-at card, scrutinized it, and then scrutinized me.

"Are you La Citoyenne Moulton?"

I answered, "Yes."

"American?"

I replied I was, and _in petto_--mighty glad I was to be so.

"Does the American Minister know you personally?"

"Yes, very well."

"Why do you wish to deprive us of your presence in Paris?"

I repeated that my affairs required my presence elsewhere.

I saw he was taking no steps toward making out my pa.s.sport, and I became more agitated and unnerved and said, "If it is impossible for you, Monsieur, to give me the pa.s.sport, I will inform Mr. Washburn of the fact, and he will no doubt come to you himself for it."

This seemed to arouse him, for he opened a drawer and took out a blank to be filled for a pa.s.sport, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, as it he was bored to death.

Now followed the most hateful and trying _quart d'heure_ I ever pa.s.sed in my life. I fancy Raoul Rigault had never been in the society of a lady (perhaps he had never seen one), and his innate coa.r.s.eness seemed to make him gloat over the present situation, and as a true republican, whose motto is _egalite, Fraternite, Liberte_, he flattered himself he was on an equality with me, therefore he could take any amount of liberty. He took advantage of the unavoidable questions that belong to the making out of a pa.s.sport, and showed a diabolical pleasure in tormenting _la citoyenne_ who stood helplessly before him.

When it came to the description and the enumerating of my features, he was more obnoxious than I can express. Peering across the table to see whether my eyes were brown or black, or my hair black or brown, he never lost an opportunity to make a fawning remark before writing it down. He described my _teint_ as _pale_; I felt pale, and think I must have looked very pale, for he said: "Vous etes bien pale, Madame. Voudriez-vous quelque chose a boire?" Possibly he may have meant to be kind; but I saw BORGIA written all over him. I refused his offer with effusion.

When he asked me my age, he said, _insinuatingly_, "Vous etes bien jeune, Madame, pour circuler seule ainsi dans Paris."

I answered, "Je ne suis pas seule, Monsieur. Mon mari [I thought it best to tell this lie] m'attend dans la voiture de Monsieur Washburn et il doit etre bien etonne de ma longue absence."