Part 40

"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.

The Emperor came up to me and asked, "What does chickabiddy mean?"

I answered, "'Come back soon to your own chickabiddy' means 'Reviens bientôt à ta chérie,'" which apparently satisfied him.