Part 67

Some one said, "You have all the aces."

She: "Oh! not all; I have not the ace of hearts."

Her partner, aghast, begs her not to tell us what her other cards are, and so the game proceeds to the bitter end.

There were other moments funny beyond words especially when Mr. Beaumont's English fails to cope with the situation and he will try to discuss the points where the Countess has failed. He says, "Did you not see he put his king on your spade ace-spot?" and, "Madame, you played the third of spades." And when we count honors, Beaumont will cover the table with his great elbows and enumerate his: "I had the ass, the knight, and the dame."

I heard a suppressed chuckle from my father-in-law, and seemed to see a vision of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza pass before me.

24th of April.

DEAR MAMA,--Auber sent a note early this morning by his coachman to ask me to lunch with him at ten-thirty o'clock (of course accompanied by Mademoiselle, my aunt, as he calls her). The coachman says that his master is not feeling well and longs to see a friend.

I am proud to be the friend he longs to see, and was only too happy to accept. Mademoiselle W---- was equally happy, ready, as always, for any excursion where a good repast was in view, and of that we were sure, as Auber's chef is renowned, and is so clever that, though the market is limited, he can make something delicious out of nothing.

Louis appeared in a short jacket and a straw hat, looking rather waggish and very embarrassed to present himself in such a costume.

Driving through the Boulevard Clichy and endless out-of-the-way streets, we finally reached Auber's hotel, which is in the Rue St. Georges.

Louis was glad to find safety under the porte-cochère, and to see his bosom companion, Auber's butler, into whose arms he fell with joy.

Auber came to the door to welcome us, seeming most grateful that we had come, and led us into the salon. There is only one way to get into the salon, and that is either through the dining-room or the bedroom; we went through the bedroom, as the other was decked for the feast.

I have never seen Auber look so wretched and sad as he did to-day; I could hardly believe it was the same Auber I have always seen so gay and full of life and spirits.

I brought a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley, which Louis had gathered in the all-producing hothouse.

"Merci, merci," he said. "Les fleurs! C'est la vie parfumée." Waiting for the breakfast to be served, he showed us about in his apartment. In the salon, rather primly furnished, stood the grand piano. The bookshelves contained Cherubini's (his master) and his own operas, and his beloved Bach. A table in the middle of the room, covered with photographs and engravings, completed son salon de garçon.

The bedroom was also very primitive: his wooden bed, with its traditional covering of bourre; a chiffonier containing his curios, royal presents, and costly souvenirs; his writing-table; and his old piano, born in 1792, on which he composed all his operas.

The piano certainly looked very old; its keys were yellow as amber, and Auber touched them with tenderness, his thin, nervous fingers, with their well-kept nails, rattling on them like dice in a box.

He said: "Le piano est presqu'aussi vieux que moi. Que de tracas nous avons eu ensemble!"

Breakfast was announced, and we three took our places at the beautifully arranged table. I wondered where the butler had found flowers and fruit and écrevisses. Mademoiselle and I ate with an astounding appetite; but Auber, who had not eaten a déjeuner for thirty years, contented himself with talking.

And talk he did, like a person hungry and thirsty to talk. He told us about Scribe, for whom he had an unlimited admiration. "I wish you had known him," he said; "he was the greatest librettist who ever existed. I only had to put the words on the piano, put on my hat, and go out. When I came back the music was all written--the words had done it alone." ("Je n'avais qu'à mettre les paroles sur le pupitre, prendre mon chapeau et sortir. Quand je revenais la musique était toute écrite, les paroles l'avaient faite toutes seules.")

He related incidents connected with his youth. His father was a banker very well off, rich even, and had destined Auber to be a banker, like himself; but when Auber went to London to commence his clerkship he found he had no vocation for finance, and began to devote himself to music and composition. He was thirty-six years old when he wrote his first opera. He told us that his first ones were so bad that he had given them to the Conservatoire pour encourager les commençants.

Breakfast had long since finished; but dear old Auber rambled on, and Mademoiselle and I sat listening.

He said he was going to leave all his music to me in his will. I thanked him, and replied nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have something which had belonged to him.

"Je ne regarde jamais mes partitions sans être gagné par la tristesse et sans penser que de morceaux à retoucher! En composant, je n'ai jamais connu d'autre muse que l'ennui."

"On ne le dirait pas," said Mademoiselle, wanting to join the conversation. "Votre musique est si gaie, si pleine d'entrain."

"Vous trouvez! Vous êtes bien bonne. Je ne sais comment cela arrive. Il n'y a pas de motifs parmi ceux qu'on trouve heureux, que je n'ai pas écrit entre deux baîllements. Je pourrais," he went on, "vous montrer tel passage où ma plume a fait un long zigzag parce que mes yeux se sont fermés et ma tête tombait sur la partition. On dirait, n'est ce pas? qu'il y a des somnambules lucides."

We thought Auber seemed very fatigued, and we soon left him, driving back the same way we came, and reached home without any adventures.

7th of May.