DEAR M.,--When we came down this morning into the salon we found it almost
deserted, and only realized the reason why when we saw the Empress and
other ladies holding their prayer-books devoutly in their hands returning
from mass, which is celebrated in the chapel of the château. They wore
black-lace veils in place of hats, the Empress wearing hers draped in true
Spanish fashion, which was infinitely becoming to her, being, as she is,
"to the _manner_ born."
We remembered _then_ that it was Sunday, and felt subdued, seeing so
many who were more pious than we were. In fact, I felt so much so that I
think it would have been impossible for me to have laughed during the
_déjeuner_. Perhaps it was fortunate I sat next to the Duke de Fernan
Nuñez, whose sedate and polished manners suited the occasion perfectly. He
did not encourage any attempt at gaiety. Oh dear, no! Far from it! I felt
myself gradually freezing, and our conversation was of the most
uninteresting character and dry almost to parching.
I began talking to him about Spain. I said I thought it must be such a
lovely country, so full of romance, sentiment, and so forth. But he nipped
my enthusiasm in the bud by informing me that he was not Spanish.
"I thought you were," I murmured.
"No; I am Italian." This staggered me a little. He was certainly the
husband of the Duchess de Fernan Nuñez, who was Spanish; why had he not
the same name?
He told me that he was "Dei Principi Pio-Trivulzio," one of the oldest
families in Milan, and that when he married his wife (who is a _Grande
d'Espagne_) he was obliged, according to the traditions of Spain, to
take her name and give up his own.
The _déjeuner_ finished, we returned to the salon, and after their
Majesties had talked a little with their guests the programme for the
afternoon, which was to be an excursion to Pierrefonds, was offered to
those who wished to go. We hurried to our rooms to put on our hats, coats,
and furs, reappearing equipped for the fray.
The _chars-à-bancs_ and the carriages of their Majesties were drawn up on
the garden side of the terrace. The Emperor took Prince Metternich in his
dog-cart; the Empress drove herself in her English phaëton, accompanied by
the Duchess de Fernan Nuñez. The rest of us were provided with big _chars-
à-bancs_, each holding six or eight people, and had four horses ridden by
two postilions. In the same carriage with me was the Duchess de Persigny,
Count Golz, and others; and although it was very cold, we did not mind, as
we were well wrapped in furs and had plenty of rugs. We enjoyed intensely
the beautiful drive through the forest of Compiègne. Monsieur Davilliers
told me that the forest contains about fifteen thousand hectares. I should
think so, judging from the endless roads and cross-roads, the interminable
avenues and wonderful vistas. There were sign-posts at every turn; those
painted red pointed toward Compiègne.
It took us a long time to reach the forest at Pierrefonds, which joins
that of Compiègne. By an abrupt turn of the road we came suddenly in view
of the enormous castle of Pierrefonds and the little town, which is known
for its sulphur baths, and only frequented in summer. No one need inform
you what kind of baths they are, as their fumes pervade space and inform
you themselves.
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS]
The imposing castle looks entirely out of place in its surroundings; the
little hill on which it stands seems as if it had been put there in order
to accommodate the castle.
We passed over two bridges and over a _pont-levis_ at the foot of the
castle; then through a second gateway into a court, and finally over a
drawbridge to reach the entrance.
There we got out of the carriages, passed through a dark, vaulted chapel
and mounted to the platform, where we had a splendid view of the town and
the forest.
Viollet-le-Duc, who was with us, is the pet architect of the Emperor; he
is working hard to restore these magnificent ruins, and has now been ten
years about it, but says that they will never be finished in his lifetime.
The Emperor is very proud of showing them as the work of his favorite
architect, and Viollet-le-Duc is just as proud of having been chosen for
this stupendous undertaking.
We were spared no details, you may be sure, from the smallest of gargoyles
to the biggest of chimneys. There is a huge fireplace which reaches to the
ceiling in the _salle des gardes_, with funny little squirrels peering at
you with cunning eyes. I wish it had occurred to the great architect to
have utilized this fireplace, for he could very well have put a few logs
in it and prevented us poor visitors from freezing to death.
We walked (it must have been miles), examining everything in detail. We
mounted two hundred steps to see the view, and then descended three
hundred steps to see the arched cellars. The castle was first bought one
hundred years ago as a ruin by some one, who only paid eight thousand
francs for it; then Napoleon I. bought it, and now Napoleon III. is
restoring it. It is seven thousand meters square. It has eight big towers,
etc. I could go on forever, I am so brimful of statistics, but I spare
you.
While the hampers brought from Compiègne were being unpacked we tried to
rest our weary limbs in some prehistoric chairs, whose carvings pierced
our bones to the marrow. I suppose this is what they call _payer de sa
personne_. I consoled myself, while drinking my tea and eating my cake,
with the thought that my _personne_ was paying its little private tax
to art.
After this interesting but fatiguing visit, and after the long drive
through the cold, misty forest, the dead and dry leaves rustling under the
horses' feet as they galloped along, I was glad to rest a moment by my
cozy fire before dressing for dinner.
I was a little dismayed when I was told that the famous poet, Théophile
Gautier, was to be my dinner companion. I was awed at the idea of such a
neighbor, and feared I should not be able to rise to the occasion. Would
he talk poetry to me? And should I have to talk poetry to him?
I tried to remember, during our promenade down the hall, Longfellow's
"Psalm of Life," in case he should expect anything in this line, and I
tried to remember something he himself had written; but for the life of me
I could think of nothing but a very improper book called _Mademoiselle
de Maupéon_, which I had never been allowed to read, so that would be
of no use as conversation.
I might have spared myself this worry, for, from the time he sat down at
the table, he talked of little else than cats and dogs. He loves all
animals. I liked him for that, and one could see that he preferred them to
any other topic.
I can't remember all the nonsense he talked. In appearance I think he must
resemble Charles Dickens. I have only seen the latter's photographs; but
had he not rather a skimpy hair brushed any which way and a stringy beard?
I fancied him so to myself. At any rate, Gautier looks like the Dickens of
the photographs.
He said he had eight or ten cats who ate with him at the table; each had
its own place and plate, and never by any chance made a mistake and sat in
another cat's place or ate off another cat's plate. He was sure that they
had a heaven and a hell of their own, where they went after their death,
according to their deserts, and that they had souls and consciences. All
his cats had classical names, and he talked to them as if they were human
beings. He said they understood every word he said. He also quoted some of
his conversation with them, which must have sounded very funny:
"Cleopatra, have you been in the kitchen drinking milk on the sly?
"Cleopatra puts her tail between her legs and her ears back and looks most
guilty, and I know then what the cook told me was true."
Then again: "Julius Caesar, you were out extremely late last night. What
were you doing?" He said that when he made these reproaches Julius Caesar
would get down from his chair and, with his tail high in the air, would
rub himself against his legs, as much as to say he would never do it
again.
"Depend upon it," he added, "they know everything we do, and more."
I asked, "When Julius Caesar comes from his nocturnal walks is he
_gris_ (tipsy)?"
"Gris! Que voulez-vous dire?"
"You once wrote a poem (how proud I was that I had recollected it), 'A
minuit tous les chats sont gris.'"
"C'est vrai, mais je parlais des Schahs de Perse."
"Est-ce que tous les Schahs de Perse sont gris à minuit?"
"Madame, tous les Schahs de Perse que j'ai eu l'honneur de voir à minuit
ont été gris comme des Polonais."
"But the 'chats' you wrote about go mewing on roofs at midnight. Do the
Schahs de Perse do that?"
"Did I write that?" said he. "Then I must have meant cats. You are very
inquisitive, Madame."
"I confess I am," I answered. "You see, that poem of yours has been set to
music, and I sing it; and you may imagine that I want to know what I am
singing about. One must sing with an entirely different expression if one
sings of gray cats or of tipsy Persian sovereigns."
He laughed and asked, with an innocent look, "Do you think I could have
meant that at midnight nothing has any particular color--that everything
is gray?"
"I don't know what you meant; but please tell me what you want me to
believe, because I believe everything I am told. I am so naïve."
"You naïve! You are the most _blasée_ person I ever met."
"I _blasée_! I! What an idea!"
Such an idea could only emanate from a poet's brain with an extra-poetical
poet's license. I was very indignant, and told him so, and said, "Est-ce
que tous les poètes sont fous à cette heure de la soirée?"
"Vous voyez," he retorted, "you are not only _blasée_; you are sarcastic."
I enjoyed my dinner immensely in spite of being _blasée_, and Gautier's
fun and amusing talk lasted until we were back in the salon. The Emperor
approached us while we were still laughing, and began to talk to us. I
told him that Monsieur Gautier had said that I was _blasée_. The Emperor
exclaimed: "Vous blasée! Il faut y mettre beaucoup de bonne volonté pour
être blasée à votre âge!"