"Here it is behind this tree, if you caramboler against the tree you might hit it." And in this way it went on until the Emperor, bored to death, slowly disappeared and the Empress suddenly discovered that her feet were cold and went away, and couples flirtatiously inclined began wandering off, and it was nearly dark and tea-time before Prince Metternich (who was worn out trying to make people understand or take any interest in the game) realized that there were only a few devotees left on the battle-field amid damaged trees and chipped balls.
So ended our game of croquet; we felt crushed and crestfallen.
At the Empress's tea, to which we were bidden, we were not spared satirical gibes on the subject of our luckless game.
The Marquis de Gallifet, Officier d'Ordonnance de l'Empereur, whom I sat next to at dinner, is what one might call sarcastic—he actually tears people to pieces; he does not leave them with a shred of reputation, and what he does not say he implies. He thinks nothing of saying, "He! He's an abominable scoundrel. She! She is a shameless coquette!" and so forth. He spares no one; nevertheless, he is most amusing, very intelligent, and an excellent talker. He told me of his awful experience in the war of Mexico. He had been shot in the intestines and left for dead on the field of battle. He managed, by creeping and crawling, "toujours tenant mes entrailles dans mon képi" to reach a peasant's house, where the good people took care of him until he was able to be transported to a hospital. There he stayed through a dismal year of suffering. In order to keep the above-mentioned entrailles in their proper place, the doctors covered them with a silver plate. "I had my name engraved on it," he said.
He asked me, "Did you ever hear anything like that?" I tried to fancy how any one would look placarded like that, but replied that I had never heard of anything quite so awful; but I had heard that every cloud had a silver lining. He laughed and said, "I shall call myself a cloud in future."
The dinner to-night was very good. I give you the menu:
Potage tortue clair,
Crème de volaille,
Brisotins de foie gras,
Saumon Napolitain,
Filet de boeuf à la moderne,
Suprême de perdreaux,
Homards à la Parisienne,
Gelinottes rôties,
Salade,
Petits pois à l'Anglaise,
Ananas Montmorency,
Glaces assorties,
Café—Liqueur (both served at the table).
Dinner over, we filed before the Cent Gardes in their shining uniforms through the long gallery.
It was earlier than usual when we began to dance; but we were (at least I was) interrupted by receiving a message from their Majesties, asking me if I would kindly sing something for them. Of course I did not refuse, and we adjourned to the music-room, where the Erard piano was.
[Illustration: THE MUSIC HALL—CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE]