Part 46

The roads were full of mud; but we splashed through them regardless of such minor details as dirt Fortunately it did not rain, and the sun made a few spasmodic efforts to come out, but it was far from being the ideal day of last year.

This chasse varies but little, and I described my first acquaintance with it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repetition of details. I fancy the route we took was the same; but I am not quite sure, for all the roads and avenues resemble one another.

Once, as we halted at an étoile, we saw a beautiful stag bound past us, full of life and strength, with enormous horns (they said it was a dix cors). Every one in the carriage stood up in their excitement to look after it. How I wished he would escape and live his free and happy life in the forest. I hate this chasse; I hate to write about it; I hate to be present at it. It is all so pitiful and painful to me! How can any one find pleasure in such cruel sport?

To kill a living creature, to take the life of an animal that has done you no harm, seems horrible to me. But I will say no more on this subject. It always puts me in a bad temper, and makes me disgusted with my fellow- creatures.

We followed the other part of the cavalcade and arrived at the carrefour in time to see the death of one stag. The others saw it, but I was occupied with my manuscript.

There were two stags taken, two beautiful creatures that ought to have lived.

It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerful fire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and I was heartily glad when we turned homeward.

Six o'clock had just struck when we drove up to the front of the Grand Escalier, and I was able to get a little rest before dressing for dinner.

All the ladies who owned diamond crescents, or any crescent suggestive of Diana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescent on her lovely hair.

The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for there were some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was the Count de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but I was able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to the Marquis's incessant explanations.

There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the curée. It is a pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to show a good deal of talent in their playing le piano méchanique, and they can play almost in time.

The curée was at ten o'clock. The long gallery was soon alive with an eager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyard was filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiègne; the piqueurs waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the gardes blew their long cors de chasse, and it was just like last year, except that on this occasion there were two stags--therefore, two sets of entrails to be devoured.

Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboring châteaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off to the station, and the privileged guests retired to their apartments.

December 4th.

At ten o'clock this morning I was surprised at hearing a timid knock at my salon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d'Aoust. He begged my pardon for disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something he considered of great importance.

He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he had not slept all night. Would I be willing to help Count d'E---- in our duet, and sing a part of his music? Otherwise, he was sure it would never go.

I told him it would not be easy to sing tenor; but I would see at the rehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him, my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that all would go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession of nightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, having forgotten both words and music.

He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since I don't know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he had ordered; but he saw that there would not be space for the eight performers (there are two scenes where we are all on the stage at once). Accordingly, he had ordered the carpenters to change it.

I ate my déjeuner sandwiched between the tenor and the basso. We rehearsed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.

The Empress went directly to the Marquis after déjeuner and said, "We are looking forward to your operetta to-night with real pleasure, and we are sure that it will be a great success." The Marquis was radiant.

When we met later in the theater for our first and only rehearsal we were delighted to find there the grand piano from the salle de musique. The curtain rose on a very pretty garden scene, with trees on either side, green linen on the floor representing grass, a village with a church- steeple in the background, and for stage properties a garden bench and a vase placed just before the footlights, so that it would not interfere with our movements, but would show us where not to fall off.

The Marquis was, of course, at the piano, and Prince Metternich, as prompter, squeezed into a prompter's box, looking wretchedly uncomfortable. We commenced the rehearsal, which, on the whole, went off better than we expected.

The basso is the first to appear. He sings a melancholy song, in which he makes known his love for the humble village maiden. His voice gets more dismal and lower as he becomes despondent, and higher and more buoyant as his hopes rise. At the end, when he sings "Elle sera à moi," his voice, though very husky, was almost musical. Then I, as the village maiden, enter with a basket, suggestive of butter and eggs, and sing a sentimental ditty telling of my love for the friend of the lord. The music of this is mediocre beyond words. The Marquis tries to show, by a few high soprano notes, how high my wildest flights of aspirations fly before I could ever reach the subject of my love. "Mes tourments" and "le doux plaisir d'aimer" get so mixed that I don't know myself what I am singing about.

The lady of the manor hears my lament, and, believing me to be in love with her husband, berates me in a dramatic duet. The friend and adviser now appears, and we get through an incomprehensible trio. He cannot convince her (the lady) of the innocence of her husband. She insists upon thinking him a traitor, leaves us in a fury, and we have the floor to ourselves when we sing the famous duet on account of which the Marquis had qualms this morning. In it there is a minor phrase which is quite intricate, and I saw that unless I came to d'E----'s rescue he could never manage it.

The lord and the lady reappear, while the friend and I retire in the background and lean up against the village steeple and whisper. The lady is violent and the lord is indifferent. The music sounds like an everlasting grumble, because her voice is contralto and his is bass. The village maiden is called to the front, and denies everything she has been accused of. The husband makes amends in a phrase miles too high for his voice. The friend takes all the blame on his black-velvet shoulders, and says he has loved the maiden all along. The maiden is overcome with emotion and faints for joy.

The final quartette is a sad affair, musically speaking, constructed on the Marquis's own ideas of thoroughbass. All the singers start on the same plane, the soprano soars heavenward, the contralto and the bass grovel in their deepest notes, while the tenor, who ought to fill up the gap, stands counting the measures on his fingers, his eyes glued to the prompter, until he joins me and we soar together.

To use a metaphor, one might say that the contralto and bass were in the lower regions, the soprano floating in heaven, the tenor groping about on earth for his note; then we all meet on the same place we started from, which is the signal for the chorus to unite their forces with ours.

The Marquis was dreadfully put out with me because I refused to faint on the stage (in the text it says Rosette tombe évanouie). He said nothing was easier. I had only to put my arms out to break the fall and--fall. He thought that with a little practice between the afternoon and the evening I should be able to do it.