“Sharp fellow, our friend the 'quatorzième'!” whispered Alphonse to Paul as we walked along towards the drawing-room.
How I should like to dwell upon the details of that dinner, the most delightful entertainment of my whole life! It needed not the sudden transition from the dark and dreary chamber I inhabited to the gilded saloon, all in a blaze with wax-lights, to make me feel it such. The “service” was splendid—the cookery perfection—the wines the rarest of every vintage—the apartment itself had all the chastened grandeur of a mediaeval chamber, with the gorgeous splendor contributed by a magnificent beauffet of silver;—and the guests! what beauty and fascination of female loveliness—what charm of wit and agreeability among the men! The great damper upon my enjoyment was my actual doubt of the reality of the whole scene. It was not, alone, that all the splendor appeared so wonderful—that the glitter of gold and the beauty of porcelain dazzled the eye; but the very names of the illustrious guests themselves suggested incredulity. What wonder if I could not credit my senses, as I heard the first names in all the genius of France on every side of me! Here, the great historian, and philosopher, and statesman; there, the delightful lyric poet; yonder, the first novelist of Europe; and next to him the distinguished painter, whose great battle-piece was in commemoration of the young Prince beside him, a hero of “two-and-twenty.”
Nothing could be more easy or familiar than the tone of conversation,—that happy pleasantry that tickles but never wounds, so unlike the English propensity for “quizzing”—that vulgar version of Gallic “badinage;” and then how eloquent, without pedantry, how sparkling, and how suggestive! Ah, my kind reader, I see the rippling smile over the broad Atlantic of your countenance. You have guessed all the secret of my enthusiasm, and you know the mystery of my admiration. Be it so; I am ready to confess all. It was my own success that made the chief enchantment of the scene. I was the lion of the evening. Not a theme on which I did not hold forth, not a subject I did not discuss,—politics, bull-fighting, cookery, dress, literature, duelling, the ballet, horse-racing, play, scandal, naval tactics, colonization, cotton-spinning, music, railroads, and the “dry-rot.” I was profound, playful, serious, jocose, instructive, and amusing by turns. Madmlle. de la Bourdonaye, the first actress of the “Français,” was charmed with my dramatic criticism; the poet—enthusiastic at my recital of a stanza of his own; the general pronounced me the very best judge of cavalry evolutions he had ever met; the great painter begged the favor of a visit from me at his studio; and the Prince's aide-de-camp—himself a distinguished soldier—told me, in a whisper, to hold myself disengaged for the following Wednesday.
These were, after all, but the precursors of greater triumphs in the drawing-room, where I played and sang several Mexican ballads; danced the Bollero with Madmlle. Rose Jasmin, of the Grand Opéra; and lassoed a Mount St. Bernard mastiff with the bell-rope. After this, beat the statesman at chess; rolled up Indian cigarettes for the ladies, whom I taught to sit squaw fashion; told various anecdotes of my prairie adventures; and wound up all by concocting a bowl of “ponch à l'Américaine,” at once the astonishment and the delight of all. I must not suffer myself to dwell longer on this theme, nor speak of that supper, with its champagne and culembourgs, its lyrics and its lobster salads, with ortolans, epigrams, seductive smiles, and maraschino jelly. Enough. The orgies—for it was no less—lasted till nigh morning; and when we arose from table, a pale streak of coming day was struggling between the margins of the curtains.
“His Royal Highness will set you down, Mons. de Corneille,” said the aide-de-camp, advancing to me.
Blushing with pleasure and shame together, I accepted what could not be declined, and proceeded to take leave of my kind host and his friends. Cordial greetings, and flattering wishes soon to meet again, met me on every side, and I retired actually overwhelmed with civil attentions.
“Do we pass by your quarter, Monsieur?” said his Royal Highness, as I took my seat in the carriage.
I would have given all my worldly wealth, and expectations to boot, to be able to say that I lived in the Place Vendôme or the Rue Royale; but there was no help for it, the murder would out one day, since my host knew my address; and with an easy, unabashed air, I said that I lodged in the Rue de la Forge, near the Mount St. Parnasse.
The Prince bowed, and took no notice of the announcement; but I thought that I could read a very peculiar twinkle in the eye of the aide-de-camp. I might have easily been mistaken, however, for I felt myself on my trial, and thought everything an accusation. How gratuitously I tortured myself, subsequent knowledge of life has repeatedly convinced me; for while to some upstart rich man, the acknowledgment of my humble abode would have been a shock sufficient to sever us forever, to the Prince the matter had no other significance than that it suited my means, with which, whether ample or the reverse, he had no right to meddle. Indeed, I was not sorry to remain in doubt upon the fact, since in the difficult negotiation between the aide-de-camp and the coachman, who had never so much as heard of my unhappy street, his Royal Highness never evinced any surprise whatever, but sat patiently to the end of the discussion, without vouchsafing even a word upon the subject.
“This must be the house, number 21,748,” said the chasseur, at length; and we drew up at the well-known door, where the old porter sat reading on one side, while his wife was peeling carrots at the other.