Chapter 14

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.