There was some dancing for an hour, when one of the chamberlains came up and said to me that the Empress would be pleased if I would sing some of my American songs. I was delighted, and went directly into the salle de musique, and when the others had come in, I sat down at the piano and accompanied myself in the few negro songs I knew. I sang "Suwanee River," "Shoo-fly," and "Good-by, Johnny, come back to your own chickabiddy." Then I sang a song of Prince Metternich's, called, "Bonsoir, Marguerite," which he accompanied. I finished, of course, with "Beware!" which Charles accompanied.
The Emperor came up to me and asked, "What does chickabiddy mean?"
I answered, "'Come back soon to your own chickabiddy' means 'Reviens bientôt à ta chérie,'" which apparently satisfied him.
Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious.
The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing for him to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, "This is for our chickabiddy!"
Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deep reverence, and we retired to our apartments.
November 30th.
The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)—I should have said, "the very distinguished diplomat"—the same one the Emperor told me yesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me his baronial arm for déjeuner. I can't imagine why he did it, unless it were to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. He struck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairs of his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt so subdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished to produce on me.
We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly he muttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep to himself), "Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog's business." ("La diplomatie est un métier de chien.")
I ventured to ask, "Is it because one is attached to a post?"