"The Baron, nothing daunted, tried a second time to relate this anecdote, this time addressing Baronne Pierres, another of the _dames d'honneur_, entirely forgetting to use the thee and thou. 'Madame, pourquoi aimez-vous la salade?' Naturally she had not the slightest idea what he meant, and he rejoined triumphantly, 'Parce qu'elle est Madame votre mère.' What annoys me beyond measure," continued the Emperor, "is that he goes on telling the anecdote, saying, 'The Emperor told it to me.'" The Emperor laughed heartily, and I did, too. Then he told me another amusing thing: At a ball at the Tuileries he said to a young American whose father he had met: "J'ai connu votre père en Amérique. Est-ce qu'il vit encore?" And the young man, embarrassed and confused, answered, "Non, sire; pas encore." "It is so good," the Emperor said, "to have a laugh, especially to-day. All the afternoon I shall be plunged in affairs of state." I did not forget to tell the Emperor that Delsarte was wildly excited on receiving the present his Majesty had sent him last year. I wandered considerably from the truth, as, in reality, Delsarte, who is not Napoleonic in his politics, had said when I gave it to him, "Comment! c'est Badinguet qui m'envoit cela. Que veut-il que j'en fasse?" with a dark frown, But I noticed he smoked _le bon tabac_, all the same; and I am sure he said (even to his best friend), "Tu n'en auras pas." Of course the Emperor had quite forgotten that such a person as Delsarte had ever existed. This was a perfectly delightful _déjeuner_, and I shall never forget it. The numerous chamberlains were busy arranging the different amusements for the guests, putting horses, carriages, shooting, and excursions at their disposal; but we, unlucky ones, were in duty bound to abide by the Marquis, who had now completed his troupe to his satisfaction. He had enticed the two young Mademoiselles Albe and two of their admirers to undertake the chorus; he was very grateful to them, as otherwise it would have had to be suppressed--perhaps the best thing that could have happened to it. The Princess Metternich asked us to come to their salon (they have the beautiful apartments called _les appartements d'Apollon_), in order that we could try the music with the piano which her husband had hired, as usual, for his stay at Compiègne, and which he had put at the disposition of the Marquis. The Marquis was in ecstasy, and capered about to collect us, and at last we found ourselves stranded with the manuscript and its master, who was overjoyed to embark us on this shaky craft. He put himself at the piano, played the score from beginning to end, not sparing us a single bar. My heart sank when I heard it, it was worse than I thought, and the plot was even worse than the music--naïf and banal beyond words.