"a la maison!" shouted Henry.
"a 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, a.s.sented 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 ta.s.sel 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 coupe and ordered him to drive to the Hotel de Ville, where Felix Pyat had mounted the carriage. What must his account have been in the kitchen?
However, the princ.i.p.al thing was that the hara.s.sed peas were safe in the kitchen and in time to be cooked and figure on the menu as _legumes_ (_les pet.i.ts pois_).
Our guests" faces beamed with satisfaction at the idea of these _primeurs_, and evidently antic.i.p.ated 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.
Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman"s eyes to read the fine print of the _Gazette_? Alas! no. Mr Moulton"s eyes were not the kind that recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardly had we finished our coffee than out came the _Gazette_. We all listened, apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction; Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself to slumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years.
Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmured to himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, his profound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the art of enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what his graceful language could become _del bocca Americana_!
Delsarte"s idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers of the workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large about the hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating from the same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; a fancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if he had a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on his _calotte_, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolution of 1848.
Ma.s.senet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with his editor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. After the _Gazette_ we awoke to life, and Ma.s.senet played some of the "Poeme de Souvenir," which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). What a genius he is! Ma.s.senet always calls Auber _le Maitre_, and Auber calls him _le cher enfant_.
Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers, and while he was at one piano Ma.s.senet put himself at the other (we have two in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wished they could have gone on forever.
Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, we could have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris--in the hands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed, Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of.
Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing "Il pleut, il pleut, Bergere," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chante tout l"ete," and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of the fable, "Eh bien, dansez maintenant," he gave such a tragic shake to his head that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hung limply over his bosom.
I sang the "Caro Nome" of "Rigoletto," with Ma.s.senet"s accompaniment.
Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me on the expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into my voice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls.
He now felt he had not lived in vain.
It being almost midnight, our guests took their departure.
There were only two carriages before the door, Mr. Washburn"s and Auber"s.
Mr. Washburn took charge of the now very sleepy Delsarte, who declaimed a sepulchral _bonsoir_ and disappeared, his redingote waving in the air.
The _maitre_ took the _cher enfant_, or rather the _cher enfant_ led the _maitre_ out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The _Gazette Officielle_ had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubt being perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coat and pumps replaced by _robe de chambre_ and slippers. Henry said the next morning he had had a bad night;... he had dreamt that the whole German army was waiting outside of Paris, sh.e.l.ling the town with peas.
_April 1, 1871._
Beaumont wished to accompany us to the ambulance to-day, thinking that he might get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his alb.u.m and pencils with him, he did not accomplish much.
We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawing of him. The officer said in a low tone to me, "Is that the famous artist Beaumont?"
I replied that it was.
"I am so glad to have an opportunity to see him, as I have heard so much of him, and have seen a great many of his pictures in Germany."
This I repeated to Beaumont, and it seemed to please him very much.
When we left, Beaumont said to him, showing him the sketch, "Would you like this?"
The officer answered in the most perfect French, "I shall always keep it as a precious souvenir"; and added, "May I not have a sketch of my nurse?"
(meaning me).
Beaumont thought that it was rather presuming on the part of the officer to ask for it, and seemed annoyed. However, he made a hasty drawing and gave it to him, saying in his blunt way, "I hope this will please you."
The officer thanked him profusely, and we left. Turning to me he said: "I have not profited much by this visit. I have given, but not taken anything away."
"But the experience," I ventured to say.
"Oh yes, the experience; but that I did not need."
In the evening we had one of our drowsy games of whist, made up of Countess B----, our neighbor opposite, brought across the street in her sedan-chair (she never walks), Mr. Moulton, myself, and Beaumont making the sleepy fourth. Neither of our guests speaks English with anything like facility, but they make frantic efforts to carry on the game in English, as Mr. Moulton has never learned the game in French and only uses English terms.
Mr. Moulton always plays with Countess B----, and I always play with Beaumont; we never change partners.
This is the kind of game we play:
It takes Beaumont a very long time to arrange his cards, which he does in a unique way, being goaded on by Mr. Moulton"s impatient "Well!" He picks out all the cards of one suit and he lays them downward on the table in a pile; then he gathers them up and puts them between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. With the next suit he does likewise, placing them between the second and third fingers, and so on, until the grand _finale,_ when the fingers loosen and the cards amalgamate. During this process his cards fall every few minutes on the floor, occasioning much delay, as they have all to be arranged again.
It is my deal; I turn up a heart. The Countess is on my left. We wait with impatience for her to play, but she seems only to be contemplating her cards.
"Well!" says Mr. Moulton, impatiently.
We all say in unison, "Your play, Countess!"
The Countess: "Oh, what dreadful cards! I can never play. Oh," with a sigh, "how dreadful!"
We are all very sorry for her. She has evidently wretched cards.
Long pause. "Your turn, Countess!" we all cry.
"What are trumps?" she asks.
We show her the trump card on the table and say together, "Hearts."
Another long pause.
She arranges her cards deliberately and then shuts them up like a fan.
"Your play, partner," says Mr. Moulton, tired out with waiting.
With a dismal wail, and looking about for sympathy, she plays the ace of clubs.