les troops had succeeded in
making themselves masters of Paris.

The villa stood in its own grounds. The municipality had desired to
present Rossini with the site; he would not, however, accept the
gracious offer unreservedly, and so it was arranged that he should
occupy it on very advantageous terms.

As I passed the gates that led to the grounds I knew so well, the first
thing that struck me was a notice posted up and signed by the military
authorities, to the effect that all unexploded bombs and other
projectiles should be buried underground, awaiting the time when they
would be collected by competent artillerymen.

I left others to do the burying, and made for the house. There was no
Madame Rossini on the look-out, as she used to be in former days, ready
to guard the approaches to her husband's study with Cerberus-like
fidelity. It was some time before I could find anybody at all. A
man-servant finally emerged from the basement; he was the only soul on
the premises, and evidently much shaken by recent events. It needed
nobody to open the door, for one could walk in through large gaps in the
walls, where the shells had done their work. Part of the staircase had
been blown away, but enough of it stood to take me to the upper floor,
to the room in which, three years ago, Rossini had died. The house until
lately had been occupied by his widow; now all the furniture had been
removed; but a large iron safe stood in the middle of the music-room,
like a solid island, surrounded by a sea of brick and mortar rubbish.

I had looked round in vain for something worth preserving as a memento
of this my last visit to the great Maestro's house, and had found
nothing better than fragments of wall-paper and pieces of a shattered
looking-glass. As I gave a final look at the scene of destruction, I
descried a black-bordered paper all but buried in a thick layer of
debris. Where all else was destroyed, that paper seemed a living thing.
I brought it to the surface, and found it was an old copy of _The
Musical World_, containing the obituary notice of Giacomo Rossini. When
I returned to London I gave it to J. W. Davison, the editor of the
journal in which it was published, so that it might be preserved to
record the incidents of the master's life, and to attest the grievous
disasters that befell the villa he loved so well.

CHAPTER X

PARIS AFTER THE COMMUNE

I well remember Paris emerging from her trials. It is difficult