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.