Part 7

The Emperor was in domino--his favorite disguise--which is no disguise at all, for every one recognizes him.

I met the famous Auber at the Tuileries ball. The Duke de Persigny brought him and introduced him to me, not because Auber asked to be presented, but because I was most anxious to make his acquaintance, and begged the duke to bring him. He is a short, dapper little man, with such a refined and clever face.

Wit and repartee sparkle in his keen eyes. His music is being very much played now--"Fra Diavolo" and "Dieu et la Bayadère," and others of his operas. His music is like himself--fine and dainty, and full of esprit; his name is Daniel François Esprit. M. de Persigny said, "Madame Moulton desires to know you, Monsieur Auber." I said, "I hope you will not think me indiscreet, but I did want to see you and know the most-talked- about person in Paris." In reply he said: "You have the advantage over me, Madame. I have never heard myself talked about." Then the Duke de Persigny said something about my voice. Auber turned to me, and said, "May I not also have the privilege of hearing you?" Of course I was tremendously pleased, and we fixed a day and hour then and there for his visit.

Prince Jérome, who is a cousin of the Emperor (people call him Plon-Plon), is not popular; in fact, he is just the contrary. But his wife, the Princess Clothilde, would be exceedingly popular if she gave the Parisians a chance to see her oftener. She is so shy, so young, and the least pretentious of princesses, hates society, and never goes out if she can avoid it. Prince Jérome is, of all the Napoleonic family, the one who most resembles Napoleon I. in appearance, but not in character. There is nothing of the hero about him. Since he had the misfortune to be suddenly indisposed the night before the battle of Solferino, and did not appear, they call him "craint-plomb." Sé non è vero è ben trovato.

The stories people tell of the Prince are awful; but one is not obliged to believe them if one does not want to.

There was such an amusing soirée at the Duke de Morny's in honor of the Duchess's birthday. They gave a play called "Monsieur Choufleuri restera chez lui le.......," which the Duke wrote himself, and for which Offenbach composed the music inspired by the Duke, who vowed that he "really did make the most of it." But, his conscience pricking him, he added, "At least some!" which I think was nearer the truth.

It was a great success, whether by the Duke de Morny or by Offenbach, and was the funniest thing I ever saw. Every one was roaring with laughter, and when the delighted audience called for "l'auteur," the Duke came out leading Offenbach, each waving his hand toward the other, as if success belonged to him alone, and went off bowing their thanks together. Apropos of the Duke de Morny, he said of himself: "I am a very complicated person. Je suis le fils d'une reine, frère d'un Empereur et gendre d'un Empereur, et tous sont illégitimes." It does sound queer! But he really is the son of Queen Hortense (his father being Count Flahaut); he is in this way an illegitimate brother of Napoleon III., and his wife is the daughter of the Emperor Nicholas of Russia. There you have a complicated case. My young sister-in-law has just married Count Hatzfeldt, of the German Embassy (second secretary). He is very good-looking without being handsome, and belongs to one of the most distinguished families in Germany. Countess Mercy-Argenteau appeared, comet-like, in Paris, and although she is a very beautiful woman, full of musical talent, and calls herself une femme politique, she is not a success. The gentlemen say she lacks charm. At any rate, none of the élégantes are jealous of her, which speaks for itself. She is not as beautiful as Madame de Gallifet, nor as élégante as Countess Pourtales, nor as clever as Princess Metternich.

Madame Musard, a beautiful American, has a friendship (en tout déshonneur) with a foreign royalty who made her a present of some-- what he thought valueless--shares of a petroleum company in America. These shares turned into gold in her hands.

The royal gentleman gnashes his false teeth in vain, and has scene after scene with the royal son, who, green with rage, reproaches him for having parted with these treasures. But the shares are safely in the clutches of papa in New York, far away, and furnishing the wherewithal to provide his daughter with the most wonderful horses and equipages in Paris. She pays as much for one horse as her husband gains by his music in a year, and as for the poor prodigal prince, who is overrun with debts, he would be thankful to have even a widowed papa's mite of her vast wealth. Another lady, whose virtue is some one else's reward, has a magnificent and much- talked-of hotel in the Champs Élysées, where there is a staircase worth a million francs, made of real alabaster. Prosper Mérimée said: "C'est par là qu'on monte à la vertu."

Her salons are filled every evening with cultured men of the world, and they say that the most refined tone reigns supreme--that is more than one can say of every salon in Paris.

I am taking lessons of Delle Sedie. He is a delightful teacher; he is so intelligent and has such beautiful theories, and so many of them, that he takes up about half the time of my lesson talking them over.

This is one of the things he says: "Take your breath from your boots." It sounds better said in French: Prenez votre respiration dans vos bottines. I don't think he realizes what he says or what he wants me to do. When I told him that I had sung somewhere unwillingly, having been much teased, he said: "You must not be too amiable. You must not sing when and what one asks. There is nothing like being begged. You are not a hand- organ, pardieu, that any one can play when they like." And this sort of talk alternates with my songs until time is up, when off I run or go, feeling that I have learned little but talked much. However, sometimes I do feel compensated; for when, to demonstrate a point, he will sing a whole song, I console myself by thinking that I have been to one of his concerts and paid for my ticket.

Yesterday I received the inclosed letter from the Duke de Morny, inviting us to go with him in his loge to see a new play called "Le déluge." It was not much of a play; but it was awfully amusing to see. Noah and his three sons and his three daughters-in-law marched into the ark dragging after them some wiry, emaciated débris of the Jardin des Plantes, which looked as if they had not eaten for a week. The amount of whipping and poking with sticks which was necessary to get them up the plank was amazing; I think they had had either too few or too many rehearsals. But they were all finally pushed in. Then commenced the rain--a real pouring cats-and- dogs kind of rain, with thunder and lightning and the stage pitch-dark. The whole populace climbed up on the rocks and crawled about, drenched to the skin, and little by little disappeared. Then, when one saw nothing but "water, water everywhere," the ark suddenly loomed out on top of the rocks (how could they get it up there?), and the whole Noah family stepped out in a pink-and-yellow sunset, and a dear little dove flew up to Noah's hand and delivered the olive branch to him. The dove was better trained than the animals, and had learned his rôle very well.

On coming out of the theater, we found, instead of the fine weather we had left outside, a pouring rain which was a very good imitation of the deluge inside. And none of us had an umbrella!

You see what the Duke de Morny writes: "I am making a collection of photographs of the young and elegant ladies of Paris. I think that you ought to figure among them, and though it is not an equal exchange, I am going to ask you to accept mine and give me yours." And he brought it to me last night.

An invitation for the ball at St. Cloud for the King of Spain, who is now in Paris to inaugurate the new rail road to Madrid, and another ball at the Tuileries will keep us busy this week.

PETIT VAL, June 17th. We have been here a week, rejoicing in the lilacs and roses and all the spring delights. The nightingales are more delightful than ever. There is one charmer in particular, who warbles most enchantingly in the cedar-tree in front of my window. He has a lady-love somewhere, and he must be desperately in love, for he sings his little heart out on his skylarking tours to attract her attention. I try hard (naïve that I am) to imitate his song, especially the trill and the long, sad note. I wonder if either of them is deceived: whether she thinks that she has two lovers (one worse than the other), or, if he thinks he has a poor rival who can't hold a candle to him.

Auber wrote a cadenza for the "Rossignol" of Alabieff, which he thought might be in nightingale style. But how can any one imitate a nightingale? Auber, in one of his letters, asked me: "Chantez-vous toujours des duos avec votre maître de... champs?"

PARIS, January, 1864.

The Princess Beauvau is a born actress, and nothing she loves better than arranging theatricals and acting herself. She rooted up some charity as an excuse for giving a theatrical performance, and obtained the theater of the Conservatoire and the promise of the Empress's presence. She chose two plays, one of Musset and the other, "l'Esclave," of Molière--and asked me to take part in this last one.

"Oh," I said, "I cannot appear in a French play; I would not dare to." But the Princess argued that, as there were only four words to say, she thought I could do it, and in order to entice me to accept, she proposed introducing a song; and, moreover, said that she would beg Auber to furnish a few members of the Conservatoire orchestra to accompany me. This was very tempting, and I fell readily into the trap she laid for me.

I consulted Auber about my song, and we decided on Alabieff's "Rossignol," for which he had written the cadenza. He composed a chorus for a few amateurs and all the orchestral parts.

I was to be a Greek slave; my dress was of white, flimsy, spangled gauze, with a white-satin embroidered bolero, a turban of tulle, with all sorts of dangly things hanging over my ears. I wore baggy trousers and babouches. You may notice that I did not copy Power's Greek slave in the way of dress.

I was completely covered with a white tulle veil, and led in by my fellow- slaves, who were also in baggy trousers and babouches. There could be no doubt that we were slaves, for we were overloaded with chains on arms, ankles, and waist. I found circulation a very difficult matter shuffling about in babouches, which are the most awkward things to walk in. One risks falling forward at every step.

When they got me in front of the orchestra the slaves drew off my veil and there I stood. The chorus retired, and I began my song. I had had only one rehearsal with the orchestra, the day before; but the humming accompaniment to my solo, that the unmusical slaves had to learn, had taken a week to teach.

Every one said the scene was very pretty. My song was quite a success; I had to sing it over again. Then I sang the waltz of Chopin, to which I had put words and transposed two tones lower. I saw Delle Sedie in the audience, with his mouth wide open, trying to breathe for me. It has sixteen bars which must be sung in one breath, and has a compass from D on the upper line to A on the lower line. Applause and flowers were showered on me, and I was rather proud of myself. I felt like Patti when I picked up my bouquets!

Later on in the play I had to say my "four words," which turned out to be six words: On ne peut être plus joli. Though I was frightened out of my wits, I managed not to disgrace myself; but I doubt if any one heard one of the six words I said. The Empress sent me a little bunch of violets, which I thought was very gracious of her, and I was immensely flattered, for I think she took it from her corsage. I had noticed it there at the beginning of the evening.

One of the bouquets bore the card of Dr. Evans, the American dentist. It was very nice of him to remember me and send me such beautiful flowers. Dr. Evans is so clever and entertaining. Every one likes him, and every door as well as every jaw is open to him. At the Tuileries they look on him not only as a good dentist, but as a good friend; and, as some clever person said, "Though reticent to others, their Majesties had to open their mouths to him."