Part 37

Par ordre de l'Empereur, j'ai l'honneur de vous prévenir que vous êtes invité, ainsi que Madame Ch. Moulton, à passer 9 jours au Palais de Compiègne, du 27 9'bre au 5 décembre.

Des voitures de la Cour vous attendront le 27, à l'arrivée à Compiègne du train partant de Paris à 2 heures 1/2 pour vous conduire au Palais.

Agréez, Monsieur, l'assurance de ma considération très distinguée.

Le Premier Chambellan, V'te de Laferrière.

Monsieur Ch. Moulton.

My father-in-law thought it cost too much--my toilettes, the necessary outlay, and especially the pourboires. He said that it was a lot of money, and added, in his most choice French, "Le jeu [he pronounced it 'jew'] ne valait pas la chandelle." He was right from his point of view, for he had none of the jeu and all of the chandelle. I pined and pouted the whole day, and considered myself the most down-trodden mortal in existence.

Imagine my delight, a few days later, to receive a second document, informing us that our names had been re-entered on the list, and that we were expected, all the same, on the 27th to stay nine days. At the same time there came a note from the Duke de Persigny, in which he said, "Their Majesties desired us particularly to come." And he added: "Tell your father-in-law that the question of pourboires has been settled now and forever. No more pourboires to be given nor taken at Compiègne."

Then Mr. M---- gave his consent, and I was blissfully happy.

It seems that the Emperor's attention had been railed to the many very disagreeable articles in the newspapers on the subject of the extravagant pourboires exacted at Compiègne. The Emperor was very much annoyed, and gave immediate orders to suppress this system, which had been going on for years without his knowledge.

Last night we stayed in Paris, to be ready at half-past two this afternoon. To describe our departure, arrival, and reception would only be to repeat what I have already written last year. Among the fifty or sixty guests there were many who were here then. In addition there are Duke d'Albe, with his daughters; Baron Beyens, the Belgian Minister; Mr. Mallet, of the English Embassy, Mr. Dué of the Swedish Legation; the poet, Prosper Mérimée; and many, of course, I do not know.

Singularly enough, we were shown into the same apartment we had before, which made us feel quite at home. We found tea, chocolate, and cakes on the table, of which I partook with enthusiasm, and then enjoyed an hour's rest before dressing for dinner.

We met at seven o'clock in the Salle des Fêtes, the only room in this huge chateau large enough to contain all the party here (I suppose there must be one hundred and twenty people), for which reason it serves both as reception and ballroom.

The Empress looked superb in a gown of an exquisite shade of lilac; she wore her beautiful pearls and a tiara of diamonds and pearls. When she approached me she held out her hand, and said she was very glad to see me. The Emperor was kind and gracious, as usual.

The Baron Gourgaud was told to take me in to dinner, and we followed the procession to the dining-room, passing the Cent Gardes, who looked like an avenue of blue and glittering trees. The Baron Gourgaud and I are neighbors in the country, their place, La Grange, being not far from Petit Val. His conversation is not absorbing; but as he knows he is dull he does not pretend to be anything else. I was thankful for this, as I felt that I did not need to make the slightest effort to entertain him.

I cast my eyes round the table, and if I had not known that this was la série amusante I should never have guessed it--every one seemed so spiritless and "sans le moindre entrain," as my neighbor remarked.

No excitement this evening but the dance. Waldteufel is suppressed! They say that the Emperor, who has a horror of publicity in private life, was very displeased last year by the indiscretions and personal anecdotes, and especially the caricatures made by Gustave Doré, which appeared in the Figaro. The Emperor vowed that no outsiders should be invited again; therefore poor Waldteufel has to pay les pots cassés, and we must make our own music.

Looking for a substitute for Waldteufel, a clever chamberlain discovered the "Debain piano" (mechanical piano).

You remember I had one in my youth. How I loved it! How I used to love to grind out all the beautiful music those ugly boxes contained! And how I used to wonder that those common wooden slides could reproduce such perfect imitations of the real thing.

I was so glad to see one again, and envied the perspiring chamberlain, who looked bored to extinction having to turn the crank, instead of joining the dance and turning the heads of the ladies. It took two of them to manage the complexities of the piano, and as neither possessed a musical turn of the wrist, and as neither had the remotest idea of time or measure, it was very hard for us poor dancers!

When one of the martyrs wanted to explain to the other what to do he would stop and forget to turn the crank. The dancers were thus obliged to pause, one foot in the air, not knowing when to put it down, and when they did put it down they did not fall in measure, and had to commence all over again. This spasmodic waltzing almost made us crazy. As for me, I could not bear it any longer. No chariot nor horses could have kept me away from that piano; to feel again (after so many years) the delight of playing it! And then I wanted to show how it should be played; so I went to the piano and took the crank out of the tired hands of the chamberlain and ground out a whole dance.

I flatter myself that the dancers enjoyed at least this one.

His Majesty walked up to the piano while I was playing and said, "But, Madame, you will tire yourself; you really must stop and let some one take your place."

I replied: "If your Majesty only knew what a pleasure it is for me to play this piano! I had one like it when I was a little girl, and have never seen one since."

"Are these pianos not something quite new?" he asked. "I was told that they were the latest invention."

"They may be," I answered, "the latest improvement on an old invention; but the pianos are older than I am."

"That," answered the Emperor, smilingly, "does not make them very old."

He called one of the chamberlains, and I reluctantly gave up my place. The Count d'Amelot was summoned, and as we were about to waltz off the Emperor said, "If I danced, I should like to dance with you myself; but I do not dance."

"Then," I said, "I must dance without you."