Those who don't know the lancers and say they do.
My old and venerable warrior belonged to class number two, and really did not know the lancers, but tripped about pleasantly and let others guide him. When we came to the grande chaîne he was completely intoxicated with his success. Every eye was on him. Every one was occupied with his doings, and his alone. All the ladies were pulling him first one way and then the other, trying to confuse him by getting him into another set, until he found himself quite at the other end of the room, still being pulled about and twirled in every direction, never knowing where he was or when he was going to stop. At last, utterly exhausted and confused, he stopped short and placed himself in the middle of the ballroom, delighted to be the center of all eyes and to make this effective finale. But no one could compare with him when he made his Louis-Quinze reverence; the younger men had to acknowledge that he scored a point there, and he might well be proud of himself. All this made us very gay, and almost boisterous. Never before had the evening finished with such a burst of merriment, and we all retired, agreeing that the ball had been a great success, and that Monsieur de Laferrière could sleep on his laurels as soundly as we intended to sleep on our pillows.
December 1st.
Count Niewekerke offered me his arm for déjeuner this morning. He is a Dutchman (Hollandais sounds better) by birth, but he lives in Paris. As he is the greatest authority on art there, the Emperor has made him Count and Director of the Galerie du Louvre. He is very handsome, tall, and commanding, and has, besides other enviable qualities, the reputation of being the great lady-killer par excellence.
As we stood there together the Empress passed by us. She held up her finger warningly, saying, "Take care! Beware! He is a very dangerous person, un vrai mangeur de coeur!" "I know, your Majesty," I answered, "and I expect to be brought back on a litter."
She laughed and passed on.
Monsieur Niewekerke looked pleasantly conscious and flattered as we walked to the dining-room, and I felt as if I was being led to the altar to be sacrificed like poor little Isaac. His English is very cockney, and he got so mixed up with "heart" and "art" that I did not know half the time whether he was talking of the collection of the Louvre Gallery or of his lady victims. He did not hesitate to call my attention to the presence of some of them at the table, which I thought was very kind of him, in case I was unaware of it.
He is as keen about the good things of the table as he is about art; in fact, he is a great epicure. As he thought well of the menu, I will copy it for you:
Consommé en tasses.
Oeufs au fromage à l'Italienne.
Petites truites.
Cailles au riz.
Côtelettes de veau grillées.
Viande froide, salade.
Brioches à la vanille, fruits, dessert, café….
"Well," said the Empress, as she stopped in front of me after déjeuner, "are you alive?"