Henry acknowledged that at the moment he looked so little like the owner
of anything except the bag, in which the peas were rattling like bullets,
that he forgave the doubt.
Louis was called from the box and the question was put to him. In ordinary
moments Louis would have mumbled and stuttered hopelessly; but he seemed
to have been given overwhelming strength on this occasion, and surprised
Henry by confirming his words with an unction worthy of the great Solomon
himself. He waved his whip aloft, pointed to Henry, and putting his hand
on his heart (which I am sure was going at a tremendous pace) said, "I
swear that this is my master!"
No one but a Communard could have doubted him; but Félix Pyat no more
believed Louis's oath than he did Henry's documents.
"_Bien_," said Pyat; "if it is true that you live in the Rue de
Courcelles, we will leave you there and continue on our way."
Now followed the most spirited altercation, all talking at once, Henry
trying to get in the coupé, and the others refusing to get out.
"À la maison!" shouted Henry.
"À la Place Beauvais!" shouted the Communards. They continued giving these
contradictory orders to poor, bewildered Louis until a crowd had
collected, and they thought it better to stop quarreling. Henry entered
the carriage, meekly taking his seat on the _strapontin_ opposite the
intruders, and thinking of the peas, which ought to have been in the pot
by this time, assented to be left at home, and ordered Louis to drive the
triumphant Communards to the Ministry of the Interior, Place Beauvais.
It would be difficult for one who did not know Louis to guess what his
state of mind must have been. He was not of the kind they make heroes of;
he was good, kind, and timid, though he was an _ancien Zouave_ and had
fought in several battles (so he said). I always doubted these tales,
and I still think Louis's loose, bulging trousers and the tassel of his
red cap were only seen from behind.
It was as good as a play to hear Louis's tragic account of yesterday, and
it made your hair stand on end when he recounted how he had been stopped
in the Rue de Castiglione, how two fiery Communards had entered the coupé
and ordered him to drive to the Hôtel de Ville, where Félix Pyat had
mounted the carriage. What must his account have been in the kitchen?
However, the principal thing was that the harassed peas were safe in the
kitchen and in time to be cooked and figure on the menu as _légumes_
(_les petits pois_).
Our guests' faces beamed with satisfaction at the idea of these
_primeurs_, and evidently anticipated great joy in eating them; but
after they had tasted them they laid down their forks and ... meditated!
The servant removed the plates with their _primeurs_, wondering how
such wanton capriciousness could exist in this _primeur_-less Paris.
Only Mr. Moulton ate them to the last pea. We--the initiated--knew where
the peculiar taste of soap, tooth-wash, perfume, etc., came from! The peas
descended to the kitchen, and ascended again untouched to the hothouse,
where they finished their wild and varied career. If they could have
spoken, what tales they could have told! They had displaced the German
Army, they had aided and abetted the cause of the Commune, and they had
cost their bringer untold sums in _pourboires_, in order to furnish a
few forkfuls for Mr. Moulton and a gala supper for the hens.
We had an excellent dinner: a _potage printanier_ (from cans), canned
lobster, corned beef (canned), and some chickens who had known many sad
months in the conservatory. An ice concocted from different things, and
named on the menu _glace aux fruits_, completed this _festin de
Balthazar_.
Mr. Moulton was obliged to don the obnoxious dress-coat, laid away during
the siege in camphor, and smelling greatly of the same. He held in his
hand _La Gazette Officielle_. The same shudder ran through us all. It
was to be read to us after dinner! Coffee was served in the ballroom,
which was dimly lighted.
Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman's eyes to read the fine
print of the _Gazette_? Alas! no. Mr Moulton's eyes were not the kind
that recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardly
had we finished our coffee than out came the _Gazette_. We all listened,
apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction;
Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself to
slumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years.
Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmured
to himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, his
profound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the art
of enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what his
graceful language could become _del bocca Americana_!
Delsarte's idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers of
the workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large about
the hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating from
the same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; a
fancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if he
had a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on his
_calotte_, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolution
of 1848.
Massenet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with his
editor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. After
the _Gazette_ we awoke to life, and Massenet played some of the "Poème de
Souvenir," which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). What
a genius he is! Massenet always calls Auber _le Maître_, and Auber calls
him _le cher enfant_.
Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers,
and while he was at one piano Massenet put himself at the other (we have
two in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wished
they could have gone on forever.
Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, we
could have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris--in the
hands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed,
Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of.
Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing "Il pleut, il pleut,
Bergère," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chanté tout
l'été," and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of the
fable, "Eh bien, dansez maintenant," he gave such a tragic shake to his
head that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hung
limply over his bosom.
I sang the "Caro Nome" of "Rigoletto," with Massenet's accompaniment.
Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me on
the expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into my
voice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls.
He now felt he had not lived in vain.
It being almost midnight, our guests took their departure.
There were only two carriages before the door, Mr. Washburn's and Auber's.
Mr. Washburn took charge of the now very sleepy Delsarte, who declaimed a
sepulchral _bonsoir_ and disappeared, his redingote waving in the air.
The _maître_ took the _cher enfant_, or rather the _cher enfant_ led the
_maître_ out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The _Gazette
Officielle_ had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubt
being perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coat
and pumps replaced by _robe de chambre_ and slippers. Henry said the next
morning he had had a bad night;... he had dreamt that the whole German
army was waiting outside of Paris, shelling the town with peas.
_April 1, 1871._
Beaumont wished to accompany us to the ambulance to-day, thinking that he
might get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his album and pencils
with him, he did not accomplish much.
We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawing
of him. The officer said in a low tone to me, "Is that the famous artist
Beaumont?"