Part 64

A desire to see some of her friends before her departure spurred Mrs. Moulton to invite them to dinner. Our friends are now so few and far between that it is not difficult to know whom to choose or where to find them.

The result was a miscellaneous company, as you will see: Mr. Washburn, Auber, Massenet, Beaumont, and Delsarte. Our family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Moulton, Henry, Mademoiselle Wissembourg, and myself.

Mrs. Moulton asked Henry to bring with him some green peas from Petit Val to eke out the chef's meager menu.

With the aid of a friendly officer, Henry managed to pick a "whole bushel" (he always exaggerates), which, with his toilet articles, completely filled his large sac de voyage. Besides this, he had a portmanteau with his evening attire, and a package which Count Arco wished to send to Paris.

Count Arco ordered out the "ancient and honorable relic" of our landau (the same I had used on the famous 18th of March) and the artillery horses, with their heavy dragoons, in order to deposit Henry and his bags at the pontoon bridge, where a man was found to take them as far as the station.

To divert himself while tramping along with his sac de voyage, Henry shelled the peas, casting the pods behind him, after the manner of Tom Thumb, never dreaming that the peas thus left to chum familiarly with his toilet things might suffer from the contact and get a new flavor. He was surprised to see how the "bushel" had diminished in volume since it started.

Mrs. Moulton had promised to send the carriage to meet l'envoi extraordinaire; but Henry, finding none, started to walk toward home, followed by a porter carrying his extra baggage.

What was Henry's astonishment at seeing Louis drive out of the Hôtel de Ville with two strange men in the coupé. Henry hailed Louis, who, though scared out of his wits, pulled up obediently, disregarding the angry voices from inside. Henry opened the door and addressed the strangers politely, "Messieurs, this is my carriage; I beg you to alight."

"Par exemple!" cried the two, in chorus. "Who are you?"

"I happen to be the proprietor of the carriage," replied Henry, assuming an important air, "and if you decline to leave it I shall call the Sergent de Ville." Then turning to the porter, he told him to put the bags in the coupé, which he did.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the two men. "Faites ça, mon bon! that would be amusing. Do you know who we are?"

Henry did not, and said he was not particularly anxious to know.

"This is Monsieur Félix Pyat, and I am his secretary. Here is a bon for your carriage," handing Henry the card.

"Well," said Henry, pulling out his card, "here is my card, here are my passes, and here [pointing to Louis] is my coachman!"

Félix Pyat said, "How do we know that this is your carriage?"

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.