DEAR M.,--I think of your sitting in your Cambridge home and reading this
account of the frivolities of your daughter. While the scene of last night
is just in my mind, I will tell you about it.
Yesterday was Count Pourtales's birthday, and Prince Metternich thought
out a wonderful scheme for a surprise for Count Pourtales and the rest of
us. Princess Metternich and Countess Pourtales were the only ones taken
into his confidence.
There was a dinner at the Pourtales' in honor of the occasion, and the
guests were Baron Alphonse Rothschild, Count and Countess Moltke, Prince
Sagan, the Duke de Croy, and ourselves.
On arriving at seven o'clock we were ushered into the salon, and later
went in to dinner. All the lights were placed on the table, leaving the
rest of the room in darkness. The servants seemed to me principally
butlers with the traditional side-whiskers, or chasseurs with beards or
mustaches. I thought that they might be extra servants brought in for the
occasion.
The first course was served. A little awkward spilling of soup on the
table-cloth was not remarked upon. The dish came on with its sauce. A
startled cry came from a lady on receiving some drops of it on her bare
neck, to which no one paid any particular attention. Then, a few moments
later, some wine was carelessly spilled on one of the gentlemen's heads.
These things can so easily happen, no one said anything.
The filet was handed to me, and at the same time the sauce-dish was
uncomfortably near my neck, and directly under my nose. This was too
nonchalant, and my surprise was still greater when the servant, in an
unnatural and gruff voice, said, "Do you want any of this stuff?" I looked
up at the man, and recognized a twinkle in a familiar eye, and as the
twinkle was accentuated by a powerful wink I began to understand and held
my tongue.
Things might have gone on longer if one of the waiters had not been too
bold, and on serving Countess Moltke, a very pretty American lady married
to a Dane, pushed her arm a little roughly, and in an obviously disguised
voice said, "Better take some of this, you won't get another chance."
She called out in an indignant voice, "Did you ever hear the like?" Count
Pourtales seemed dazed, while his wife looked as unconcerned as if there
was nothing unusual. Then the insolent waiters began talking across the
table to each other. One said, "Don't you see that lady with the rose has
not got any salad?" The other answered, "Attend to your own affairs."
Count Pourtales, crimson with mortification, was about to get up and
apologize, when he was suddenly pulled back into his seat, and the absurd
waiters began throwing pellets of bread at him.
Imagine his feelings! To be treated in this way in one's own house, by
one's own servants! Every one of them must have suddenly gone crazy, or
else they were drunk. For a moment consternation was depicted on all the
countenances; we thought the end of the world had come.
When things had gone so far, Prince Metternich stood up and made a pretty
little speech for the host, and we all drank his health, and the waiters
all took off their wigs and false beards and waved them in the air.
Six of the most fashionable young gentlemen of Paris had been serving us!
The Pourtales' own servants, who had kept aloof, now came in, and the
_ci-devant_ waiters drew up chairs between those at the table, and the
dinner finished amidst great hilarity.