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.