Chapter VII: Part 7

He seized the first moment after their Majesties had retired to pounce upon those he had selected, and having obtained their consent he proposed a walk in the long, so-called Treille or Berceau. Napoleon I. built this walk, which is one thousand meters in length and reaches to the edge of the forest, for the Queen Marie Louise. I must say I pitied her toes if she walked there often on as cold a day as to-day; I know mine ached as we paced to and fro while the Marquis explained the operetta. It was really too cold to stay out-of-doors, and we turned back to the little salon, called the _Salon Japonais_, to finish the séance there.

"What part am I to take?" asked Prince Metternich.

As he could not be anything else, he accepted the role of prompter, and promised all the help he could give. When I went to the Empress's tea this afternoon I took those questions Aunt M* sent me from America. You know them. You have to write what your favorite virtues are, and if you were not yourself, who you would like to be, and so forth.

I was glad to have something new and original which might amuse people. The Empress, seeing the papers in my hand, asked me what they were. I told her that they were some questions: a new intellectual pastime just invented in America.

"Do they invent intellectual pastimes in America?" she asked, looking at me with a smile. "I thought they only invented money-making."

"They do that, too," I replied; "but they have also invented these questions, which probe the mind to the marrow and unveil the soul."

She laughed and said, "Do you wish me to unveil my soul, _comme cela, à l'improviste_?"

I answered, "Perhaps your Majesty will look at them at your leisure. I hardly dare to ask the Emperor; but if he would also look at them I should be so happy."

"Leave them with me, and to-morrow we will see; in any case my soul is not prepared to-day."

So I left the papers with her.

It is the fashion this year for ladies to wear lockets on a black-velvet ribbon around their necks. The more lockets you can collect and wear, the finer you are. Each locket represents an event, such as a birthday, a bet, an anniversary of any kind, and so forth. Any excuse is good for the sending of a locket. The Empress had seventeen beautiful ones to-day (I counted them). They have a rather cannibalish look, I think. Is it not in Hayti (or in which country is it?) that the black citizens wear their rivals' teeth as trophies on their black necks?

Who should offer me his arm for dinner to night but Prosper Mérimée, the lion of lions, the pampered poet, who entrances all those who listen to him whenever he opens his lips.

He looks more like an Englishman than a Frenchman; he is quite old, and I fancy older than he looks (he may be fifty). He is tall and _dégagé_, with a nice smile and pleasant eyes, though sometimes he gives you a sharp and suspicious glance. He speaks English very well. I told him (stretching a point) that I had never heard a foreigner speak such good English as he did.

He replied, without a blush: "I ought to speak it well. I learned it when I was a child." And he added, complacently, "I can even write better than I speak."

I asked him if he could write poetry in English.

He answered: "I do not think I could. My English goes just so far and no farther. I have what is strictly necessary, but not what is superfluous." ("J'ai, le stricte nécessaire, mais pas le superflu.")

"To make rhymes," said I, "I should think one would have to know every word in the dictionary."

"Oh!" he said, "I don't attempt rhymes; they are far beyond me."

When he talks French he is perfectly delightful. He creates the funniest words, and gives such an original turn to his phrases that you are--at least I was--on the _qui vive_ not to lose anything he said. It is like listening to a person who, improvising on the piano, makes unexpected and subtle modulations which you hate to have escape you.

He told me he had been in correspondence with an English lady for over thirty years.

"Were you in love with her, that you wrote to her all those years?" I inquired.

"I was in love with her letters," he replied. "They were the cleverest things I ever read--full of wit and humor."

"Was she in love with you or only with your letters?" I was tactless enough to ask.

"How can you ask?" he said. I wondered myself how I could have asked so indiscreet a question.

"Did she write in English, and did you write in French?"

"Yes, she wrote in English," he answered, and looked bored.

"Is she dead?" I asked, getting bolder and bolder; but he would not talk any more about this clever lady, and we drifted into other channels of conversation. Too bad! I would have liked to have known if the lady was still living.

I wish I could remember all the pearls which fell from his lips; but alas! one cannot, like Cleopatra, digest pearls. But I do remember one thing he said, which was, "If I should define the difference between men and women, I should say, 'Que les hommes valent plus, mais que les femmes valent mieux.'"

I wondered if this was one of the pearls he let drop in his letters to the wonderful English _bas-bleu_.

In the evening we danced to the waltzes of the Debain, and were obliged to tread a very spasmodic measure. The Prince Imperial asked me for a polka, and I had to clutch his shoulder with one hand and beat time with the other on his arm to keep any kind of rhythm in his evolutions. It is nice to see him circulating about and chatting with all the ladies.

_November 29th._

A message came to my room this morning, to the effect that I was to sit next to the Emperor. I suppose they thought it best to let me know in time, in case I should go wandering off sight-seeing, like last year, but no danger! Once caught, twice warned, as the saying is.

Therefore, when we descended to the grand salon, I knew what my fate was to be. The Due de Sesto, who had recently married the widow of the Duc de Morny, gave me his arm and deposited me at the side of his Majesty.

The Emperor was in the most delightful spirits, and full of _bonhomie_ and fun. Glancing across the table at a certain diplomat (Baron F----), he said, "I never knew a person more impervious to a joke than that gentleman is." And then he went on to say that once he had told the Baron the old time-worn joke which any child can understand.

(You have heard it many times, I am sure, dear mama.)

One begins by saying, "Vous me permettez de vous tutoyer (You will permit me to use the thee and thou)?" And then one says, "Pourquoi aimes-tu la chicorée (Why dost thou like chicory)?" To which the answer is, "Parce qu'elle est amère (ta mère) (Because it is 'bitter' or 'your mother')."

But I had better tell the story in the Emperor's own language.

"The Baron was making a call upon the Duchess de Bassano, one of the ladies-in-waiting of the Empress, a severe and formal person, as you know, and in deep mourning for her mother. He wished to make himself agreeable and told her this story, saying that it was the most amusing thing he had ever heard. But he forgot to ask her permission to use the thee and thou, and said, point-blank, 'Pourquoi aimes-tu la salade?' The Duchess did not understand, and he, bursting out laughing, continued, without waiting for her to speak, 'Parce qu'elle est ta mère.' The Duchess arose, indignant. 'Monsieur, I beg you cease. My poor mother died three months ago. I am still wearing mourning for her!' With which she burst into tears and left the room.

"The Baron, nothing daunted, tried a second time to relate this anecdote, this time addressing Baronne Pierres, another of the _dames d'honneur_, entirely forgetting to use the thee and thou. 'Madame, pourquoi aimez-vous la salade?' Naturally she had not the slightest idea what he meant, and he rejoined triumphantly, 'Parce qu'elle est Madame votre mère.' What annoys me beyond measure," continued the Emperor, "is that he goes on telling the anecdote, saying, 'The Emperor told it to me.'"

The Emperor laughed heartily, and I did, too. Then he told me another amusing thing:

At a ball at the Tuileries he said to a young American whose father he had met: "J'ai connu votre père en Amérique. Est-ce qu'il vit encore?" And the young man, embarrassed and confused, answered, "Non, sire; pas encore." "It is so good," the Emperor said, "to have a laugh, especially to-day. All the afternoon I shall be plunged in affairs of state."

I did not forget to tell the Emperor that Delsarte was wildly excited on receiving the present his Majesty had sent him last year. I wandered considerably from the truth, as, in reality, Delsarte, who is not Napoleonic in his politics, had said when I gave it to him, "Comment! c'est Badinguet qui m'envoit cela. Que veut-il que j'en fasse?" with a dark frown, But I noticed he smoked _le bon tabac_, all the same; and I am sure he said (even to his best friend), "Tu n'en auras pas."

Of course the Emperor had quite forgotten that such a person as Delsarte had ever existed.

This was a perfectly delightful _déjeuner_, and I shall never forget it.

The numerous chamberlains were busy arranging the different amusements for the guests, putting horses, carriages, shooting, and excursions at their disposal; but we, unlucky ones, were in duty bound to abide by the Marquis, who had now completed his troupe to his satisfaction. He had enticed the two young Mademoiselles Albe and two of their admirers to undertake the chorus; he was very grateful to them, as otherwise it would have had to be suppressed--perhaps the best thing that could have happened to it.

The Princess Metternich asked us to come to their salon (they have the beautiful apartments called _les appartements d'Apollon_), in order that we could try the music with the piano which her husband had hired, as usual, for his stay at Compiègne, and which he had put at the disposition of the Marquis.

The Marquis was in ecstasy, and capered about to collect us, and at last we found ourselves stranded with the manuscript and its master, who was overjoyed to embark us on this shaky craft. He put himself at the piano, played the score from beginning to end, not sparing us a single bar. My heart sank when I heard it, it was worse than I thought, and the plot was even worse than the music--naïf and banal beyond words.

A lord of the manor (Vicomte Vaufreland, basso) makes love to a humble village maiden (myself, soprano); the lady of the manor (Madame Conneau, contralto) becomes jealous and makes a scene with her husband; the friend and adviser (Count d'Espeuilles, tenor) steps in and takes his friend's part and kindly says that it was he who had loved the village maiden. The wife is satisfied, and everything ends beautifully.

It would be very uphill work for the poor Marquis and I wondered if he would really have the patience to go on with it, after realizing how unmusical the men were. D'Espeuilles stood behind the Marquis's bald head and reached over to put his finger on the note he wanted to sing, and then banged on that, until, after singing every note in the scale, he finally fixed it in his brain.

Could anything be more despairing?

Our next thought naturally was our costumes.

The operetta was laid in the time of Louis XV.

Would we be able to find anything in the various trunks in the gallery next to the theater?

When we went there we found everything we did not want--costumes, odds and ends of all sorts, which belonged to all other periods than Louis XV. The contents of the trunks were in a very chaotic state; each article which once had formed one of a complete costume was without its better half; the unprincipled things had meandered off and got mixed up in other sets.

To be sure, there was a Louis XV. coat, with embroidered pockets and satin-lined coat-tails, but nothing more suitable for _culottes_ could be found than a pair of red-plush breeches, trimmed with lace (I think one calls them "trunk hose"), of Henry II.'s time.

When they were urged upon the Vicomte, he absolutely refused them, saying he would not mix up epochs like that, and, after pulling over everything, he decided to send to Paris for a complete costume.

Count d'Espeuilles was less difficult to satisfy, and was contented with a black-velvet Hamlet costume, with a plumed hat, which suited no epoch at all, but suited his style of beauty.

Madame C---- thought her maid might arrange out of a ball-dress some sort of attire; with powdered hair, paint, and patches, she could represent the lady of the manor very well. My Tyrolean dress of last year would do quite nicely for me, when my maid had put the customary bows on the traditional apron.

We all separated, carrying our carefully written rôles under our arms, and in the worst of tempers.

Monsieur Dué was my neighbor at dinner. He is very musical, and was much interested in hearing about the operetta. He does not think the Marquis has any talent; neither do I! But I don't wish to give any opinion on the poor little struggling operetta before it has lived its day, and then I am sure it will die its natural death. Monsieur Dué has composed some very pretty things for the piano, which he plays on the slightest encouragement.

Nothing else was talked of in the evening but the operetta, and the Marquis was in the seventh heaven of delight.

Their Majesties were told of the Marquis's interesting intention. I could see, across the room, that the Empress knew that I was going to take part, for she looked over toward me, nodding her head and smiling at me.

There was some dancing for an hour, when one of the chamberlains came up and said to me that the Empress would be pleased if I would sing some of my American songs. I was delighted, and went directly into the _salle de musique_, and when the others had come in, I sat down at the piano and accompanied myself in the few negro songs I knew. I sang "Suwanee River," "Shoo-fly," and "Good-by, Johnny, come back to your own chickabiddy." Then I sang a song of Prince Metternich's, called, "Bonsoir, Marguerite," which he accompanied. I finished, of course, with "Beware!" which Charles accompanied.

The Emperor came up to me and asked, "What does chickabiddy mean?"

I answered, "'Come back soon to your own chickabiddy' means 'Reviens bientôt à ta chérie,'" which apparently satisfied him.

Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious.

The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing for him to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, "This is for our chickabiddy!"

Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deep reverence, and we retired to our apartments.

_November 30th._

The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)--I should have said, "the very distinguished diplomat"--the same one the Emperor told me yesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me his baronial arm for _déjeuner_. I can't imagine why he did it, unless it were to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. He struck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairs of his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt so subdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished to produce on me.

We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly he muttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep to himself), "Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog's business." ("La diplomatie est un métier de chien.")

I ventured to ask, "Is it because one is attached to a post?"

He gave me such a withering look that I wished I had never made this silly remark.

All the same, he unbent a little and, with a dismal twinkle in his eye, his face brightening, and launching into frivolity, said: "The Emperor told me something very funny the other day. (I knew what was coming.) He asked me why I liked salad." Turning to me he said, "Can you guess the answer?"

I had many ready for him; but I refrained and only said, "No, what was it?"

"Parce qu'elle était ma mère!" he replied, and laughed immoderately, until such a fit of coughing set in that I thought there would not be a button left on him. When he had finished exploding he said, "Did you understand the 'choke'?"

If I had not understood the "choke," I understood the choking, and I thought any more jokes like this would be the end of him then and there.

I answered quite seriously, "I think I would understand better, if I knew what sort of salad his Majesty meant."

He shook his head and said he did not think it made any difference what sort of salad it was. And we became tombstones again.

I could hardly wait till we returned to the salon, I was so impatient to tell the Emperor of the Baron's latest version.

As his Majesty was near me, talking to some lady during the _cercle_, I stepped forward so as to attract his attention.

He soon moved toward me, and I, against all the rules of etiquette, was the first to speak.

"Your Majesty," said I, "I sat next to the Baron at breakfast and was not spared the salad problem."

"How did he have it this time?" asked the Emperor.

"This time, your Majesty, he had it that you had said he liked salad because it was his mother."

The Emperor burst out laughing and said, "He is hopeless."

It would seem as if Fate had chosen the Baron to be the butt of all the _plaisanteries_ to-day.

Later in the afternoon we drove in _chars-à-bancs_ to St. Corneille, a lovely excursion through the woods. The carriages spun along over the smooth roads, the postilions cracked their whips and tooted their horns, the air was cold and deliciously invigorating, and we were the gayest party imaginable. One would have thought that even the worst grumbler would have been put in good spirits by these circumstances; but no! our distinguished diplomat was silent and sullen, resenting all fun and nonsense. No wonder that all conspired together to tease him.

At St. Corneille there are some beautiful ruins of an old abbey and an old Roman camp. When we came to the "Fontaine des Miracles" Mr. Mallet (of the English embassy) pulled out of his pocket a Baedeker and read in a low tone to those about him what was said about the miracles of the fountain. The Marquis de Gallifet, not wishing any amusement to take place without helping it on and adding some touches of his own, thereupon interposed in a stage whisper (evidently intended to be heard by the Baron), "The waters of this fountain are supposed to remove [then raising his voice] barrenness."

"Baroness who?" asked the diplomat, who was now all alert.

Mr. Mallet, to our amazement (who ever could have imagined him so jocose), said quite gravely, "Probably the wife of the barren fig-tree."

"Ah!" said the Baron, "I don't know them," thus snubbing all the fig- trees.

"A very old family," said Mallet, "mentioned in the Bible."

This seemed to stagger our friend, who evidently prided himself on knowing every family worth knowing. The Marquis de Gallifet, seeing his chance, hurried to tell the story of the d'Albe family, which the crestfallen Baron drank in with open mouth and swallowed whole. As the Duke d'Albe was there himself, listening attentively and smiling, the story must have been true! The Marquis de Gallifet said, when Noah was ready to depart in the ark he saw a man swimming for dear life toward the boat, waving something in the air. Noah called out to him:

"Don't ask to be taken in. We can't carry any more passengers, we are already too full."

The man answered, "I don't want to be taken in; I don't care for myself; but, pray, save the papers of the family."

The Baron looked very grave, and turning to the Duke asked, in an extremely solemn tone, "Is this really true?"

"Perfectly," answered the Duke, without moving a muscle. "The saying, 'Après moi le déluge,' originated in our family; but we say, 'Nous d'abord, et _puis_ le déluge!'"

"How interesting!" said the Baron.

Then Monsieur Dué, not wishing to be outdone, said his family was as old (if not older), having taken the name of Dué from the dove [in Swedish "dué" means dove] which carried the olive-branch to the ark. By this time the poor Baron, utterly staggered and bewildered in presence of such a concourse of ancient nobility, did not know on which leg to stand. How could he and his family ever hold up their heads again?

We returned to Compiègne by St. Périne, where there was a most enchanting view, and drove straight through a long avenue and entered _La cour d'honneur_. It was almost half-past five when we reached our rooms.

I thought I had had enough of fossils and ruins for one day, from breakfast onward, so when old General Changarnier came to offer me his arm for dinner I said to myself, "This is the climax!"

But, on the contrary (the unexpected always arrives), he was so delightful and genial that my heart was warmed through, which, indeed, it needed, after the ice-chest I had had for _déjeuner_. He did not try to raise me to his level, but simply let himself down to mine, and talked small talk so youthfully that I felt we were about the same age. He was a charming man.

Monsieur de Laferrière arranged a sort of ball for this evening. There was an unusual flutter, for everything was going to be extra fine, and we put on our prettiest dresses. Programmes with dangling pencils were lavished on us, on which regular dances were set down--quadrilles, waltzes, polkas, and lancers.

The usual _cercle_ was curtailed, in view of the ball.

The chamberlains, to facilitate matters, had arranged the boxes of music for the mechanical piano very methodically on a table, so there should be no mistakes or fumbling with the slides.

The ladies were so agitated, fearing they would not get any partners, that they made very transparent efforts to attract the attention of the gentlemen. One would have thought they had never been to a ball in all their lives. The gentlemen, just as agitated, rushed about to secure the ladies, whom they could have had _without_ the rushing on other evenings. The Empress looked exquisitely beautiful. The Emperor stood in the doorway, smiling at this whirlwind of gaiety and animation. The Prince Imperial danced untiringly with all the ladies.

Flowers were distributed about, and, wonder of wonders! ices were served at intervals, as if it were a real ball. My old general was chivalry itself. He even engaged a partner for the lancers, and skipped about telling everybody he did not know how to dance them, which was unnecessary, as one could see for oneself later.

There are four kinds of people in society:

Those who know the lancers.

Those who don't know the lancers.

Those who know the lancers and say they don't.

Those who don't know the lancers and say they do.

My old and venerable warrior belonged to class number two, and really did not know the lancers, but tripped about pleasantly and let others guide him. When we came to the _grande chaîne_ he was completely intoxicated with his success. Every eye was on him. Every one was occupied with his doings, and his alone. All the ladies were pulling him first one way and then the other, trying to confuse him by getting him into another set, until he found himself quite at the other end of the room, still being pulled about and twirled in every direction, never knowing where he was or when he was going to stop. At last, utterly exhausted and confused, he stopped short and placed himself in the middle of the ballroom, delighted to be the center of all eyes and to make this effective _finale._ But no one could compare with him when he made his Louis-Quinze reverence; the younger men had to acknowledge that he scored a point there, and he might well be proud of himself. All this made us very gay, and almost boisterous. Never before had the evening finished with such a burst of merriment, and we all retired, agreeing that the ball had been a great success, and that Monsieur de Laferrière could sleep on his laurels as soundly as we intended to sleep on our pillows.

_December 1st._

Count Niewekerke offered me his arm for _déjeuner_ this morning. He is a Dutchman (_Hollandais_ sounds better) by birth, but he lives in Paris. As he is the greatest authority on art there, the Emperor has made him Count and Director of the Galerie du Louvre. He is very handsome, tall, and commanding, and has, besides other enviable qualities, the reputation of being the great lady-killer _par excellence._

As we stood there together the Empress passed by us. She held up her finger warningly, saying, "Take care! Beware! He is a very dangerous person, _un vrai mangeur de coeur!"_ "I know, your Majesty," I answered, "and I expect to be brought back on a litter."

She laughed and passed on.

Monsieur Niewekerke looked pleasantly conscious and flattered as we walked to the dining-room, and I felt as if I was being led to the altar to be sacrificed like poor little Isaac. His English is very cockney, and he got so mixed up with "heart" and "art" that I did not know half the time whether he was talking of the collection of the Louvre Gallery or of his lady victims. He did not hesitate to call my attention to the presence of some of them at the table, which I thought was very kind of him, in case I was unaware of it.

He is as keen about the good things of the table as he is about art; in fact, he is a great epicure. As he thought well of the menu, I will copy it for you:

_Consommé en tasses._
Oeufs au fromage à l'Italienne.
Petites truites.
Cailles au riz.
Côtelettes de veau grillées.
Viande froide, salade.
Brioches à la vanille, fruits, dessert, café....

"Well," said the Empress, as she stopped in front of me after _déjeuner_, "are you alive?"

"I am, your Majesty, and, strange to say, my heart is intact."

"Wonderful!" she said, "you are an exception."

We had the choice between going to a _chasse à tir_ (without the Emperor), and a drive to Pierrefonds.

I had enough of the _chasse à tir_ last year, and I still see in my dreams those poor birds fluttering in their death-agony. Anything better than that!

I preferred Pierrefonds, with its gargoyles and its hard, carved chairs.

I was glad Monsieur de Niewekerke went with us, for he was more interesting and did not go into so many details as Viollet-le-Duc.

The restoration has progressed very much since the last time we were here, though far from being completed yet. In the huge hall Niewekerke told me the statues about the chimney were portraits of the wives of the _preux chevaliers_ of that time.

I thought the frescos of this hall were very crude in color; but Monsieur de Niewekerke said they were excellent copies of the ancient style of decoration.

The castle is such a magnificent ruin one almost wishes that it was not restored.

I would like to see it in summer, not in this season, when one perishes with cold and longs, in spite of its beauty, to be out of it and in a warmer place.

There was a dense fog on the lake and a mist in the forest when we left, and it was dreadfully damp and cold. The postilions took a shorter cut and carried us through La Brévière and St. Jean aux Bois.

I should think both must be charming in summer; but now--ugh!

What was my delight at the Empress's tea this afternoon to see Auber, my dear old Auber! He had been invited for dinner, and had come with the artists who are to play to-night. He looked so well and young, in spite of his eighty-three years. Every one admires him and loves him. He is the essence of goodness, talent, and modesty. He is writing a new opera. Fancy writing an opera at eighty-three!

I asked what the name of it was. He answered: "'Le Rêve d'Amour.' The title is too youthful and the composer is too old. I am making a mistake, but what of that? It is my last!"

I said I hoped he would live many more years and write many more operas.

He shook his head, saying, "Non, non, c'est vraiment mon dernier!"

Monsieur de Lareinty said to the Empress at tea that there was an unusual amount of musical talent among her guests--a real galaxy of stars seldom to be found in amateurs.

The galaxy may have existed--but the stars! The Milky Way seen through the wrong end of an opera glass was nothing to the smallness of their magnitude.

The Empress caught at the idea directly, and the decree went out that there should be a concert tomorrow evening; not mere desultory singing, but singers and songs in regular order.

Auber said he was sorry he could not be there to applaud us. He accompanied us when we went to our rooms, and then he had no idea how to find his own. After having seen him handed over successively to three different valets, we left him to his fate, hoping he would arrive at his destination eventually. When we entered the salon for dinner Auber was already there. If he had not brought his own servant with him, he never would have been in time.

The troop of the Comédie Française played "La Joie fait Peur," by Musset. The theater was brilliantly lighted; the guests, from the environs and the _fine fleur_ of Compiègne, filled all the boxes. The gentlemen and the officers were in the parquet. The Court and Imperial guests sat with their Majesties in the Imperial box. It was a magnificent sight!

Madame Favart was most touching in her part, and everybody, I think, wept. Coquelin was excellent; but I do not like him so much in his pathetic rôles; his squeaky voice and nasal tones do not belong to the sentimental style. After the play he gave a monologue, which was the funniest thing I ever heard, "Les Obsèques de Madame X----." The whole house was laughing, and most of all the Emperor. I could see his back shaking, and the diplomatic and apoplectic Baron condescended to explode twice.

The representation lasted till half-past ten. The artists did not change their toilettes, but came into the salon as they were dressed for the play. They were received with great cordiality by their Majesties. The Chamberlain gave them each a little package containing, I suppose, a valuable souvenir from the sovereigns. A special train took them back to Paris.

Auber bid me good-by, saying, "Au revoir until Paris, if you are not too absorbed in these grandeurs to receive a poor, insignificant bourgeois like me."

"You can always try," I answered with a laugh. "Bon soir et bon voyage!"

_December 2d._

What a day this has been! A storm of rain and hail raged all night, and when I looked out of the window this morning I saw everything deluged in water. The park looked dismal; all the paths were full of puddles; the trees were dripping with rain, and, to judge from the dark skies and threatening clouds, it seemed as if worse was to follow and there might be thunder and lightning. On the programme for to-day there stood _chasse à courre_; but of course _cela tombait dans l'eau_, as would have been its natural end anyway in this weather. None of the ladies donned their green costumes, as even one was so sure that the day would be passed indoors.

At _déjeuner_ I was fortunate enough to sit between Prince Metternich and the Marquis de Gallifet. Certainly I could not have two more delightful companions, each so different and yet so entertaining. The Marquis was very aggressive and grumpy; but very amusing.

In French one says, "On a le vin triste," or "On a le vin gai." The Marquis has "le déjeuner grincheux (grumpy)," I think.

He began by attacking me on the English language. He said it was utterly absurd and illogical, and though he ought to know it, as he had an English wife, he felt he never could learn it.

"Apropos of to-day's weather, you say, 'It never rains but it pours'--au fond qu'est-ce que cela veut dire? 'Il ne pleut jamais, mais il pleut à verse'; cela n'a pas le sens commun--you might as well say, 'It never pours but it rains.'"

I had to confess that it did sound senseless, and tried to explain the meaning; but he grumbled, "Why don't they say what they mean?" He told me he was once traveling in England and put his head out of the carriage window to see something, and some one inside cried, "Look out!" He put his head still farther out, when the person continued to scream, "Look out!" He answered, "I am looking out," at which a rude hand seized him by the coat-collar and jerked him inside, saying, "Damn it, look in then!"

"How can any one conquer a language as stupid as that?"

I told him I felt humiliated to own such a language, and I ought to apologize for it, though I had not invented it and did not feel responsible for it; but he would not listen to me.

Prince Metternich asked, "What shall we do indoors this awful day?"

I proposed tableaux; but he objected to tableaux.

Then I suggested that one might have a fancy-dress tea-party. At last, after many wild propositions, he said, "Why not charades?"

Of course he had intended charades all the time. He asked the Marquis de Gallifet if he would help us.

"No, I won't," answered the Marquis, "but you are welcome to my wife; she loves dressing-up and all that nonsense;" adding, "It is the only thing she can do with success."

"But we want her to act. Can she?"

"Act!" said the amiable husband. "She can act like the devil!"

By the time we had returned to the salon the Prince had not only found a good word for a charade, but had decided in his resourceful mind all minor details. He thought it would amuse the Prince Imperial to join us, and he asked permission of the Prince's _gouverneur_ to allow him to do so. The permission was readily given.

Prince Metternich begged Vicomte Walsh to obtain the Empress's gracious consent to honor the performance with her presence. She was very pleased at the idea of seeing her son's _début_ as an actor, and promised to come, and even said she would have the tea, usually served in her salon, brought to the little theater.

Prince Metternich gave us a sketch of what he wanted us to do, and gave us general instructions as to our costumes, and bade us meet again in an hour. He would see to everything else: light, heat, scenery, powder, paint, etc., all the accessories, would be ready for us. We ladies were to be _pierrettes_ and dancers of Louis-Quinze period; the gentlemen were to represent the _talons rouges_, and to have red cloth pasted on the heels of their low shoes. We could paint our faces and powder our hair after our own ideas. "But, ladies, above all, do not be late," were the parting words of the Prince.

We followed his instructions as well as we could, and reappeared in the theater to hear the now fully matured plans of our impresario.

The Empress was seated before we were ready, Prince Metternich was so long painting the Prince Imperial. We could hear her saying, "Allons! Allons!" clapping her hands in her eagerness for us to commence.

The word was PANTALON.

The first syllable, PAN, was represented by the Prince Imperial as a statue of Pan.

His body was visible to the waist above a pedestal. Over his flesh-colored undershirt he wore a wreath of green leaves across his shoulders, and his head was also covered with a wreath. He held the traditional flute before his mouth. No one could have recognized the delicate features of the Prince Imperial, as Prince Metternich had painted his lips very large and very red, and had added a fantastic mustache. His eyebrows (black as ink) had an upward tilt, in true Mephistophelian style.

It was a sylvan scene. Prince Metternich had ordered from the greenhouse some orange and other trees to be moved on to the stage, which made a very pretty effect.

The Princess Metternich, in a quaint costume, was the Harlequine to her husband's Harlequin. They made a very funny love scene, because, being man and wife, they could make all their kissing real, and so ridiculously loud, that one could hear it all over the theater. Every one laughed till they cried, and particularly as Pan was rolling his eyes about in a very comical manner.

Her other lover (Pierrot) came in unawares; but she had time to throw a shawl over Harlequin, who put himself on all fours, thus making a bench, on which she demurely sat down. In order to throw dust in Pierrot's eyes, she took from her basket a hammer and some nuts and began cracking them (to the audience's and Pan's horror) on poor Harlequin's head, eating them with great _sang-froid_.

Prince Metternich had prudently provided a wooden bowl, with which he covered his head so that his ambassadorial skull should be spared. Pan smiled a diabolical smile, and had, of course, a great success.

TALON was the next syllable. This was a sort of pantomime. The actors were grouped like a picture of Watteau. Count Pourtales was a dancing-master and was really so witty, graceful, and took such artistic attitudes that he was a revelation to every one. Prince Metternich (his bosom friend) exclaimed:

"Who would ever have thought it? How talent conceals itself!"

The whole word PANTALON was a combination of Columbines, Harlequins, and Louis-Quinze cavaliers dancing in a circle, and all talking nonsense at once.

The statue of Pan in knickerbockers, his wreaths still on his head and shoulders, joined in the dance.

The Empress led the vociferous applause, and Prince Metternich came forward on the stage and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are deeply flattered at your approval. There will be a second performance before his Majesty, the Emperor of the French, and I hope you will accord us your patronage."

There was great laughter at this.

Count Pourtales took me in to dinner. We were very glad to be neighbors. He was resting on his laurels, and I wanted to rest before getting mine (if I got any) this evening. We exchanged views on nervousness. He said he had been dreadfully nervous in the afternoon. I told him I was always nervous when I had to sing, and when I sang the first song I was hot and cold all over.

"Like Alboni," he said; "she has had to give up singing in opera, she had such stage-frights."

We thanked each other after finishing dinner for having been kind enough to have let the other alone.

The rain was still pouring in torrents when we returned to the salon. In spite of the many voices, we could still hear it pattering against the windows of the terrace. It was lucky there were some stars among us, as Monsieur de Lareinty had said, otherwise we would have seen none to-night.

At ten o'clock the "galaxy" went into the _salle de musique_, and the planets began to shine. First came Baroness Gourgaud, who attacked the "Mi-bémol Polonaise," of Chopin. Their Majesties settled themselves in their chairs with a look of heavenly resignation on their faces, which was reflected on those of most of the guests.

However, she played beautifully, more like an artiste than an amateur. The Empress went forward to her, holding out her hand, which the Baroness, bowing to the ground, kissed gratefully, feeling that she had covered herself with glory, as she really had.

Then Monsieur de V---- (our basso) sang "O Marguerite," from Faust, without the slightest voice, but with excellent intentions. Next, having the music under his hand, he continued and sang "Braga's Serenade," which he thought was more suited to his voice, though it is written, as you know, for a soprano. He sang the girl's part in a mysterious, husky, and sepulchral voice, and the angel's part weaker and feebler than any angel ever dreamed of.

I looked at the beautiful ceiling painted by Girodet, and to keep myself from going to sleep counted the legs of the angels, and tried to calculate how many legs belonged to each. Monsieur de V---- said his idea was to make the contrast very strong between the girl and the angel; he certainly succeeded!

Monsieur Dué played some of what he calls his "Sketches." "Il est si doué (gifted)," exclaimed Princess Metternich.

Every one was pleased; so was he.

I sang "Le Rossignol," of Alabieff, in which is the cadenza Auber wrote for me. Princess Metternich played the accompaniment.

Madame C---- (our contralto) sang "Lascia che pianga," which suited her beautiful voice better than it did the audience's taste. Then she sang "Ah! Mon Fils," of "Le Prophète," with great effect, accompanying herself.

But this was not the kind of music to please our audience.

Count E---- (our tenor) was asked to add his Milky Way tenor to the rest of the planets, but begged to be excused on the plea of a sore throat. No one questioned this, and he was allowed to remain unheard.

Later I sang "Oh! that We Two were Maying," by Gounod, a much too serious song; but the Empress said she thought it was the most beautiful one she had ever heard. I think so, too. I also sang one of Massenet's, "Poème d'Avril." They asked for "Beware!" which I sang. The Emperor came up to me (each time he gets up from his chair every one gets up and stands until he sits down again), and said, "Won't you sing the song about the shoe?"

What did he mean? I had no idea.

"The one you sang the other night," said the Emperor.

What do you think he meant?

Well, he meant "Shoo-fly!" I sang it, as he desired. I don't believe he knows yet what its true meaning is. There is an end to all things, and our concert came to an end at last. Their Majesties, with gracious smiles and repeated thanks, retired, the Milky Way faded from view, and the planets went to bed.

I know I deserved mine, and I appreciated it when I got it.

_December 3d._

The _chasse à courre_ is generally fixed for the last day of the _série_; but their Majesties, at the suggestion of the thoughtful Vicomte Walsh, ordered it to be changed to this afternoon, in order that the operetta should arrive at a riper stage of perfection. Would it ever be near enough? We had never had a moment yet when we could rehearse all together. Vicomte de V----'s costume had not come from Paris, and he was bordering on brain-fever, in a state of expectancy and impatience. Neither he nor d'Espeuilles knew their songs, and the chorus needed much drilling. The Princess Metternich put her salon at the Marquis's disposal, and he spent half his time teaching some of his pupils.

The days of the _chasse à courre_ the gentlemen appear in red coats and the ladies in green-cloth dresses. Those that had _le bouton_ put it in their buttonhole. You may be sure I wore mine!

All the carriages, the horses, and grooms were before the terrace at two o'clock, and after the usual delay we drove off to the forest. Their Majesties and the Prince Imperial were on horseback. The Duchess de Sesto invited me to drive with her, and in the same _char-à-banc_ with us were Baronne de la Poeze, Comtesse Pourtales, and four or five others. The Duchess looked very dainty, wrapped in her chinchilla furs. I had had so little time to learn the talking part of my rôle that I took it with me in the carriage, hoping to be able to study it. They all sympathized with me, as they knew the operetta was to be given to-morrow evening.

The roads were full of mud; but we splashed through them regardless of such minor details as dirt Fortunately it did not rain, and the sun made a few spasmodic efforts to come out, but it was far from being the ideal day of last year.

This _chasse_ varies but little, and I described my first acquaintance with it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repetition of details. I fancy the route we took was the same; but I am not quite sure, for all the roads and avenues resemble one another.

Once, as we halted at an _étoile_, we saw a beautiful stag bound past us, full of life and strength, with enormous horns (they said it was a _dix cors_). Every one in the carriage stood up in their excitement to look after it. How I wished he would escape and live his free and happy life in the forest. I hate this _chasse_; I hate to write about it; I hate to be present at it. It is all so pitiful and painful to me! How can any one find pleasure in such cruel sport?

To kill a living creature, to take the life of an animal that has done you no harm, seems horrible to me. But I will say no more on this subject. It always puts me in a bad temper, and makes me disgusted with my fellow- creatures.

We followed the other part of the cavalcade and arrived at the _carrefour_ in time to see the death of one stag. The others saw it, but I was occupied with my manuscript.

There were two stags taken, two beautiful creatures that ought to have lived.

It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerful fire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and I was heartily glad when we turned homeward.

Six o'clock had just struck when we drove up to the front of the Grand Escalier, and I was able to get a little rest before dressing for dinner.

All the ladies who owned diamond crescents, or any crescent suggestive of Diana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescent on her lovely hair.

The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for there were some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was the Count de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but I was able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to the Marquis's incessant explanations.

There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the _curée_. It is a pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to show a good deal of talent in their playing _le piano méchanique_, and they can play almost in time.

The _curée_ was at ten o'clock. The long gallery was soon alive with an eager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyard was filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiègne; the _piqueurs_ waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the _gardes_ blew their long _cors de chasse_, and it was just like last year, except that on this occasion there were two stags--therefore, two sets of entrails to be devoured.

Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboring châteaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off to the station, and the privileged guests retired to their apartments.

_December 4th._

At ten o'clock this morning I was surprised at hearing a timid knock at my salon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d'Aoust. He begged my pardon for disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something he considered of great importance.

He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he had not slept all night. Would I be willing to help Count d'E---- in our duet, and sing a part of his music? Otherwise, he was sure it would never go.

I told him it would not be easy to sing tenor; but I would see at the rehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him, my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that all would go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession of nightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, having forgotten both words and music.

He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since I don't know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he had ordered; but he saw that there would not be space for the eight performers (there are two scenes where we are all on the stage at once). Accordingly, he had ordered the carpenters to change it.

I ate my _déjeuner_ sandwiched between the tenor and the basso. We rehearsed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.

The Empress went directly to the Marquis after _déjeuner_ and said, "We are looking forward to your operetta to-night with real pleasure, and we are sure that it will be a great success." The Marquis was radiant.

When we met later in the theater for our first and only rehearsal we were delighted to find there the grand piano from the _salle de musique_. The curtain rose on a very pretty garden scene, with trees on either side, green linen on the floor representing grass, a village with a church- steeple in the background, and for stage properties a garden bench and a vase placed just before the footlights, so that it would not interfere with our movements, but would show us where _not_ to fall off.

The Marquis was, of course, at the piano, and Prince Metternich, as prompter, squeezed into a prompter's box, looking wretchedly uncomfortable. We commenced the rehearsal, which, on the whole, went off better than we expected.

The basso is the first to appear. He sings a melancholy song, in which he makes known his love for the humble village maiden. His voice gets more dismal and lower as he becomes despondent, and higher and more buoyant as his hopes rise. At the end, when he sings "Elle sera à moi," his voice, though very husky, was almost musical. Then I, as the village maiden, enter with a basket, suggestive of butter and eggs, and sing a sentimental ditty telling of my love for the friend of the lord. The music of this is mediocre beyond words. The Marquis tries to show, by a few high soprano notes, how high my wildest flights of aspirations fly before I could ever reach the subject of my love. "Mes tourments" and "le doux plaisir d'aimer" get so mixed that I don't know myself what I am singing about.

The lady of the manor hears my lament, and, believing me to be in love with her husband, berates me in a dramatic duet. The friend and adviser now appears, and we get through an incomprehensible trio. He cannot convince her (the lady) of the innocence of her husband. She insists upon thinking him a traitor, leaves us in a fury, and we have the floor to ourselves when we sing the famous duet on account of which the Marquis had qualms this morning. In it there is a minor phrase which is quite intricate, and I saw that unless I came to d'E----'s rescue he could never manage it.