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 Compiegne, 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 ma.n.u.script 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--naf and ba.n.a.l beyond words.

A lord of the manor (Vicomte Vaufreland, ba.s.so) 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 ap.r.o.n.

We all separated, carrying our carefully written roles under our arms, and in the worst of tempers.

Monsieur Due 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 Due 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 bientot a ta cherie,'" which apparently satisfied him.

Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious.

The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing for him to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, "This is for our chickabiddy!"

Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deep reverence, and we retired to our apartments.

_November 30th._

The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)--I should have said, "the very distinguished diplomat"--the same one the Emperor told me yesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me his baronial arm for _dejeuner_. I can't imagine why he did it, unless it were to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. He struck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairs of his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt so subdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished to produce on me.

We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly he muttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep to himself), "Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog's business." ("La diplomatie est un metier de chien.")

I ventured to ask, "Is it because one is attached to a post?"

He gave me such a withering look that I wished I had never made this silly remark.

All the same, he unbent a little and, with a dismal twinkle in his eye, his face brightening, and launching into frivolity, said: "The Emperor told me something very funny the other day. (I knew what was coming.) He asked me why I liked salad." Turning to me he said, "Can you guess the answer?"

I had many ready for him; but I refrained and only said, "No, what was it?"

"Parce qu'elle etait ma mere!" he replied, and laughed immoderately, until such a fit of coughing set in that I thought there would not be a b.u.t.ton left on him. When he had finished exploding he said, "Did you understand the 'choke'?"

If I had not understood the "choke," I understood the choking, and I thought any more jokes like this would be the end of him then and there.

I answered quite seriously, "I think I would understand better, if I knew what sort of salad his Majesty meant."

He shook his head and said he did not think it made any difference what sort of salad it was. And we became tombstones again.

I could hardly wait till we returned to the salon, I was so impatient to tell the Emperor of the Baron's latest version.

As his Majesty was near me, talking to some lady during the _cercle_, I stepped forward so as to attract his attention.

He soon moved toward me, and I, against all the rules of etiquette, was the first to speak.

"Your Majesty," said I, "I sat next to the Baron at breakfast and was not spared the salad problem."

"How did he have it this time?" asked the Emperor.

"This time, your Majesty, he had it that you had said he liked salad because it was his mother."

The Emperor burst out laughing and said, "He is hopeless."

It would seem as if Fate had chosen the Baron to be the b.u.t.t of all the _plaisanteries_ to-day.

Later in the afternoon we drove in _chars-a-bancs_ to St. Corneille, a lovely excursion through the woods. The carriages spun along over the smooth roads, the postilions cracked their whips and tooted their horns, the air was cold and deliciously invigorating, and we were the gayest party imaginable. One would have thought that even the worst grumbler would have been put in good spirits by these circ.u.mstances; but no! our distinguished diplomat was silent and sullen, resenting all fun and nonsense. No wonder that all conspired together to tease him.

At St. Corneille there are some beautiful ruins of an old abbey and an old Roman camp. When we came to the "Fontaine des Miracles" Mr. Mallet (of the English emba.s.sy) pulled out of his pocket a Baedeker and read in a low tone to those about him what was said about the miracles of the fountain.

The Marquis de Gallifet, not wishing any amus.e.m.e.nt to take place without helping it on and adding some touches of his own, thereupon interposed in a stage whisper (evidently intended to be heard by the Baron), "The waters of this fountain are supposed to remove [then raising his voice]

barrenness."

"Baroness who?" asked the diplomat, who was now all alert.

Mr. Mallet, to our amazement (who ever could have imagined him so jocose), said quite gravely, "Probably the wife of the barren fig-tree."

"Ah!" said the Baron, "I don't know them," thus snubbing all the fig- trees.

"A very old family," said Mallet, "mentioned in the Bible."