III. — I DINE WITH MR. BLOCQUE.
He was a prominent personage at that time—my friend (in a parliamentary sense at least) Mr. Blocque.
He was a charming little fellow, acquainted with everybody—an “employee of government,” but employed to do heaven knows what; and while others were starving, Mr. Blocque was as plump as a partridge. He wore the snowiest shirt bosoms, glittering with diamond studs; the finest broadcloth coats; the most brilliant patent leather shoes; and his fat little hands sparkled with costly rings. He was constantly smiling in a manner that was delightful to behold; hopped about and chirped like a sparrow or tomtit; and was the soul of good humor and enjoyment. There was no resisting his charms; he conquered you in five minutes. When he linked his arm in yours, and chirped, “My dear friend, come and dine with me—at five o’clock precisely—I shall certainly expect you!” it was impossible to refuse the small gentleman’s invitation. Perhaps you asked yourself, “Who is my dear friend, Mr. Blocque—how does he live so well, and wear broadcloth and fine linen?” But the next moment you smiled, shrugged your shoulders, elevated your eye-brows, and—went to dine with him.
I was like all the world, and at five o’clock one evening was shown into Mr. Blocque’s elegant residence on Shockoe Hill, by a servant in white gloves, who bowed low, as he ushered me in. Mr. Blocque hastened to receive me, with his most charming smile; I was introduced to the guests, who had all arrived; and ten minutes afterward the folding doors opened, revealing a superb banquet—for the word “dinner” would be too common-place. The table was one mass of silver. Waxlights, in candelabra, were already lit; and a host of servants waited, silent and respectful, behind every chair.
The guests were nearly a dozen in number, and more than one prominent “government official” honored Mr. Blocque’s repast. I had been introduced among the rest to Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress, and bitter foe of President Davis; Mr. Croker, who had made an enormous fortune by buying up, and hoarding in garrets and cellars, flour, bacon, coffee, sugar, and other necessaries; and Colonel Desperade, a tall and warlike officer in a splendid uniform, who had never been in the army, but intended to report for duty, it was supposed, as soon as he was made brigadier-general.
The dinner was excellent. The table literally groaned with every delicacy. Everywhere you saw canvass-back ducks, grouse, salmon, paté de foie gras, oysters; the champagne, was really superb; the Madeira and sherry beyond praise; and the cigars excellent Havanas, which at that time were rarely seen, and cost fabulous prices. Think, old army comrades, starving on a quarter of a pound of rancid bacon during that summer of ‘64—think of that magical bill of fare, that array of wonders!
Who was the magician who had evoked all this by a wave of his wand? How could smiling Mr. Blocque roll in luxury thus, when everybody else was starving? How could my host wear broadcloth, and drink champagne and smoke Havanas, when ragged clothing, musty bacon, and new apple-abomination, were the order of the day with all others?
These questions puzzled me extremely; but there was the magician before us, smiling in the most friendly manner, and pressing his rich wines on his guests, as they sat around the polished mahogany smoking their cigars. Elegantly clad servants hovered noiselessly behind the convives—the wine circulated—the fragrant smoke rose—the conversation became general—and all was animation.
“No, sir!” says Mr. Torpedo, puffing fiercely at his cigar, “the President never will assign Johnston to command again, sir! You call Mr. Davis ‘pig-headed,’ Mr. Croker—you are wrong, sir! You do injustice to the pigs, sir! Pigs are not insane, sir!”
And Mr. Torpedo sucks at his cigar, as though he were a vampire, extracting the blood of his victim.