The maître took the cher enfant, or rather the cher enfant led the maître out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The Gazette Officielle had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubt being perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coat and pumps replaced by robe de chambre and slippers. Henry said the next morning he had had a bad night;… he had dreamt that the whole German army was waiting outside of Paris, shelling the town with peas.
April 1, 1871.
Beaumont wished to accompany us to the ambulance to-day, thinking that he might get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his album and pencils with him, he did not accomplish much.
We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawing of him. The officer said in a low tone to me, "Is that the famous artist Beaumont?"
I replied that it was.
"I am so glad to have an opportunity to see him, as I have heard so much of him, and have seen a great many of his pictures in Germany."
This I repeated to Beaumont, and it seemed to please him very much.
When we left, Beaumont said to him, showing him the sketch, "Would you like this?"
The officer answered in the most perfect French, "I shall always keep it as a precious souvenir"; and added, "May I not have a sketch of my nurse?" (meaning me).
Beaumont thought that it was rather presuming on the part of the officer to ask for it, and seemed annoyed. However, he made a hasty drawing and gave it to him, saying in his blunt way, "I hope this will please you." The officer thanked him profusely, and we left. Turning to me he said: "I have not profited much by this visit. I have given, but not taken anything away."