Part 28

"Really; what shall I do?"

"Try to hit this ball."

"Par exemple! Which ball? Where is it? I do not even see it."

"Here it is behind this tree, if you caramboler against the tree you might hit it." And in this way it went on until the Emperor, bored to death, slowly disappeared and the Empress suddenly discovered that her feet were cold and went away, and couples flirtatiously inclined began wandering off, and it was nearly dark and tea-time before Prince Metternich (who was worn out trying to make people understand or take any interest in the game) realized that there were only a few devotees left on the battle-field amid damaged trees and chipped balls.

So ended our game of croquet; we felt crushed and crestfallen.

At the Empress's tea, to which we were bidden, we were not spared satirical gibes on the subject of our luckless game.

The Marquis de Gallifet, Officier d'Ordonnance de l'Empereur, whom I sat next to at dinner, is what one might call sarcastic--he actually tears people to pieces; he does not leave them with a shred of reputation, and what he does not say he implies. He thinks nothing of saying, "He! He's an abominable scoundrel. She! She is a shameless coquette!" and so forth. He spares no one; nevertheless, he is most amusing, very intelligent, and an excellent talker. He told me of his awful experience in the war of Mexico. He had been shot in the intestines and left for dead on the field of battle. He managed, by creeping and crawling, "toujours tenant mes entrailles dans mon képi" to reach a peasant's house, where the good people took care of him until he was able to be transported to a hospital. There he stayed through a dismal year of suffering. In order to keep the above-mentioned entrailles in their proper place, the doctors covered them with a silver plate. "I had my name engraved on it," he said.

He asked me, "Did you ever hear anything like that?" I tried to fancy how any one would look placarded like that, but replied that I had never heard of anything quite so awful; but I had heard that every cloud had a silver lining. He laughed and said, "I shall call myself a cloud in future."

The dinner to-night was very good. I give you the menu:

Potage tortue clair, Crème de volaille, Brisotins de foie gras, Saumon Napolitain, Filet de boeuf à la moderne, Suprême de perdreaux, Homards à la Parisienne, Gelinottes rôties, Salade, Petits pois à l'Anglaise, Ananas Montmorency, Glaces assorties, Café--Liqueur (both served at the table).

Dinner over, we filed before the Cent Gardes in their shining uniforms through the long gallery.

It was earlier than usual when we began to dance; but we were (at least I was) interrupted by receiving a message from their Majesties, asking me if I would kindly sing something for them. Of course I did not refuse, and we adjourned to the music-room, where the Erard piano was.

I did not exactly know what to sing; but Prince Metternich soon relieved my mind on that score by saying, "Don't bother about singing anything serious, and especially don't sing anything classical." The Princess Metternich could accompany anything which was not too difficult; therefore we thought I had better sing "Ma mère était bohémienne," of Massé, which I did. I saw directly that this melodramatic music, beautiful as it is, did not suit the occasion, for though the gaily attuned audience was visibly affected by the phrase, Et moi j'ai l'âme triste, they did not show more signs of emotion than by making a little dab at their eyes with their pocket-handkerchiefs.

The Princess remained at the piano, ready to accompany the other songs I had brought, which were of the same character, and I stood by her, trying to decide what I should sing next, when the Emperor came up and asked me for "Beware!" Charles accompanied that, and I sang it. The Empress asked me if I would sing some Spanish songs for her. I sang "Chiquita," which I learned with Garcia, and the "Habañero." She seemed very pleased, and made me many compliments. Then the Emperor begged me for some negro songs, and asked me if I knew "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," or "Suwanee River," or "Nelly Bly," all of which he remembered having heard in America.

I sat down at the piano and commenced with "Suwanee River." I fortunately knew the words of that.

(Oh, Delsarte! what would you have said had you seen your pupil singing this claptrap music before your sovereigns and their most distinguished guests?)

Delsarte says that one can force the tears into one's eyes, one can make one's lips tremble, one can express the most harrowing emotions in one's voice, and not sing more than "do, re, mi, fa." I tried to profit by his teachings, and brought them to bear upon the pathetic words of "Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary," and I could see that both their Majesties were deeply moved. I sang the word "weary" with such pathos that every one was more or less affected, and the phrase, "All the world is dark and dreary," I rendered in the most heart-broken tones.

I was sorry that I could not remember the words of "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," as the Emperor wanted it; but I could not. I knew the music of "Nelly Bly," but had never known the words, so I tried to improvise some; but it was impossible for me to think of more than two words which rhymed with "Bly," and those were "sly" and "eye."

With shameful aplomb I sang these senseless words:

Nelly Bly wipes her eye, On her little frock, Nelly Bly, Nelly Bly, Dick a dick a dock.

Happily the Emperor did not notice anything wrong, and was delighted to hear those old songs again, and thanked me repeatedly.

Once seated at the piano, I was not allowed to leave it until my répertoire of music of this character had been exhausted.

This brought the evening to a close.

Tea was served; their Majesties withdrew, and I fled to my apartment feeling that metaphorically I was covered with laurels.

November 28th.

DEAR A.,--To-day I was very high up, 'way up in the clouds, for I sat next to the Emperor.

Davilliers, one of the chamberlains, gave me his arm and conducted me to my place. The Emperor's first words were:

"I can't thank you enough for the pleasure you gave us last evening."