The little Baroness was almost as delighted as the Prince. Ah! what a man that Zilah was! He would give, as a wedding-gift to the Tzigana, the most beautiful diamonds in the world, those famous Zilah diamonds, which Prince Joseph had once placed disdainfully upon his hussar’s uniform when he charged the Prussian cuirassiers of Ziethen, sure of escaping the sabre cuts, and not losing a single one of the stones during the combat. It was said that Marsa, until she was his wife, would not accept any jewels from the Prince. The opals in the silver agraffe were all she wanted.
“You know them, don’t you, Jacquemin? The famous opals of the Tzigana? Put that all in, every word of it.”
“Yes, it is chic enough.” answered the reporter. “It is very romantic, a little too much so; my readers will never believe it. Never mind, though, I will write it all up in my best manner.”
The fete on board the steamer, given by the Prince in honor of his betrothal, had been as much talked of as a sensational first night at the Francais, and it added decidedly to the romantic prestige of Andras Zilah. There was not a marriageable young girl who was not a little in love with him, and their mothers envied the luck of the Tzigana.
“It is astonishing how jealous the mammas are,” said the Baroness, gayly. “They will make me pay dearly for having been the matchmaker; but I am proud of it, very proud. Zilah has good taste, that is all. And, as for him, I should have been in love with him myself, if I had not had my guests to attend to. Ah, society is as absorbing as a husband!”
Upon the boat, Paul Jacquemin did not leave the side of the matchmaker. He followed her everywhere. He had still to obtain a description of the bride’s toilettes, the genealogy of General Vogotzine, a sketch of the bridegroom’s best friend, Varhely, and a thousand other details.
“Where will the wedding take place?” he asked the Baroness.
“At Maisons-Lafitte. Oh! everything is perfect, my dear Jacquemin, perfect! An idyl! All the arrangements are exquisite, exquisite! I only wish that you had charge of the supper.”
Jacquemin, general overseer of the Baroness’s parties in the Rue Murillo, did not confess himself inferior to any one as an epicure. He would taste the wines, with the air of a connoisseur, holding his glass up to the light, while the liquor caressed his palate, and shutting his eyes as if more thoroughly to decide upon its merits.
“Pomard!” would slowly fall from his lips, or “Acceptable Musigny!” “This Chambertin is really very fair!” “The Chateau Yquem is not half bad!” etc., etc. And the next morning would appear in the reports, which he wrote himself under various pseudonyms: “Our compliments to our friend Jacquemin, if he had anything to do with the selection of the wines, in addition to directing the rehearsals of the Baroness’s operetta, which latter work he most skilfully accomplished. Jacquemin possesses talents of all kinds; he knows how to make the best of all materials. As the proverb says, ‘A good mill makes everything flour.’”