At ten o'clock the "galaxy" went into the _salle de musique_, and the planets began to shine. First came Baroness Gourgaud, who attacked the "Mi-bemol Polonaise," of Chopin. Their Majesties settled themselves in their chairs with a look of heavenly resignation on their faces, which was reflected on those of most of the guests.

However, she played beautifully, more like an artiste than an amateur. The Empress went forward to her, holding out her hand, which the Baroness, bowing to the ground, kissed gratefully, feeling that she had covered herself with glory, as she really had.

Then Monsieur de V---- (our ba.s.so) sang "O Marguerite," from Faust, without the slightest voice, but with excellent intentions. Next, having the music under his hand, he continued and sang "Braga's Serenade," which he thought was more suited to his voice, though it is written, as you know, for a soprano. He sang the girl's part in a mysterious, husky, and sepulchral voice, and the angel's part weaker and feebler than any angel ever dreamed of.

I looked at the beautiful ceiling painted by Girodet, and to keep myself from going to sleep counted the legs of the angels, and tried to calculate how many legs belonged to each. Monsieur de V---- said his idea was to make the contrast very strong between the girl and the angel; he certainly succeeded!

Monsieur Due played some of what he calls his "Sketches." "Il est si doue (gifted)," exclaimed Princess Metternich.

Every one was pleased; so was he.

I sang "Le Rossignol," of Alabieff, in which is the cadenza Auber wrote for me. Princess Metternich played the accompaniment.

Madame C---- (our contralto) sang "Lascia che pianga," which suited her beautiful voice better than it did the audience's taste. Then she sang "Ah! Mon Fils," of "Le Prophete," with great effect, accompanying herself.

But this was not the kind of music to please our audience.

Count E---- (our tenor) was asked to add his Milky Way tenor to the rest of the planets, but begged to be excused on the plea of a sore throat. No one questioned this, and he was allowed to remain unheard.

Later I sang "Oh! that We Two were Maying," by Gounod, a much too serious song; but the Empress said she thought it was the most beautiful one she had ever heard. I think so, too. I also sang one of Ma.s.senet's, "Poeme d'Avril." They asked for "Beware!" which I sang. The Emperor came up to me (each time he gets up from his chair every one gets up and stands until he sits down again), and said, "Won't you sing the song about the shoe?"

What did he mean? I had no idea.

"The one you sang the other night," said the Emperor.

What do you think he meant?

Well, he meant "Shoo-fly!" I sang it, as he desired. I don't believe he knows yet what its true meaning is. There is an end to all things, and our concert came to an end at last. Their Majesties, with gracious smiles and repeated thanks, retired, the Milky Way faded from view, and the planets went to bed.

I know I deserved mine, and I appreciated it when I got it.

_December 3d._

The _cha.s.se a courre_ is generally fixed for the last day of the _serie_; but their Majesties, at the suggestion of the thoughtful Vicomte Walsh, ordered it to be changed to this afternoon, in order that the operetta should arrive at a riper stage of perfection. Would it ever be near enough? We had never had a moment yet when we could rehea.r.s.e all together.

Vicomte de V----'s costume had not come from Paris, and he was bordering on brain-fever, in a state of expectancy and impatience. Neither he nor d'Espeuilles knew their songs, and the chorus needed much drilling. The Princess Metternich put her salon at the Marquis's disposal, and he spent half his time teaching some of his pupils.

The days of the _cha.s.se a courre_ the gentlemen appear in red coats and the ladies in green-cloth dresses. Those that had _le bouton_ put it in their b.u.t.tonhole. You may be sure I wore mine!

All the carriages, the horses, and grooms were before the terrace at two o'clock, and after the usual delay we drove off to the forest. Their Majesties and the Prince Imperial were on horseback. The d.u.c.h.ess de Sesto invited me to drive with her, and in the same _char-a-banc_ with us were Baronne de la Poeze, Comtesse Pourtales, and four or five others. The d.u.c.h.ess looked very dainty, wrapped in her chinchilla furs. I had had so little time to learn the talking part of my role that I took it with me in the carriage, hoping to be able to study it. They all sympathized with me, as they knew the operetta was to be given to-morrow evening.

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 _cha.s.se_ varies but little, and I described my first acquaintance with it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repet.i.tion 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 _etoile_, 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 _cha.s.se_; 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 ma.n.u.script.

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 _curee_. 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 mechanique_, and they can play almost in time.

The _curee_ 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 Compiegne; the _piqueurs_ waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the _gardes_ blew their long _cors de cha.s.se_, 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 pa.s.sed about. Those who had come from the neighboring chateaux 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 compa.s.sion triumphing over my forebodings, and a.s.sured 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 s.p.a.ce 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 _dejeuner_ sandwiched between the tenor and the ba.s.so. We rehea.r.s.ed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.

The Empress went directly to the Marquis after _dejeuner_ 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 gra.s.s, 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 ba.s.so 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 a moi," his voice, though very husky, was almost musical. Then I, as the village maiden, enter with a basket, suggestive of b.u.t.ter 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 ba.s.s. 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 thoroughba.s.s. All the singers start on the same plane, the soprano soars heavenward, the contralto and the ba.s.s 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 ba.s.s 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 evanouie_). 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.

I could see myself covered with bruises tumbling about over sofas and chairs, and I could see the bewilderment of any one coming into my room while I was practising this part of my role.