In the Courts of Memory 1858-1875. | Page 8

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Petit Val's potager is known far and wide for the best peaches and pears in France, and the gardener takes all the prizes in the shows: if the prizes are in money, he pockets them; if they are diplomas, he allows us to keep them. He is a rare old scamp.
When Mr. Moulton bought the place he had the right to call himself "De Petit Val," and he could have--if he had wished to--been "Moulton de Petit Val." But he turned up his American nose at such cheap nobility as this; still he was obliged, much against his will, to conform to the obligations which belonged to the estate. For instance, he had to give so many bushels of potatoes to the curé, so many bushels of grain to the doctor, so many bushels of vegetables to the postmaster, and to them all so many casks of the awful wine we produce on the estate, known in the vernacular as "le petit bleu."
When this sour wine is in the golden period of effervescing, any sick child in the village ticketed by the doctor can be brought to the wine- presses and dipped in. If labeled "_très malade_," he is dipped in twice. Don't you think that this is a dreadful custom? I think that it is awful to put such an article as this on the market; but then we know that if a person has tasted it once they never do it again. We try to grow green corn here; but it degenerates unless the seed is brought every year from America. This year, not having been renewed, the corn is a failure; but the American melons ripen here in perfection, and rivalize successfully with the big French melons. The other day an ambassador ate so many of them that he begged us to let him stay all night. We were quite anxious about him, as he had an audience with the Emperor the next morning; but he managed it somehow.
An important member of the family I must not forget! the governess, Mademoiselle Wissembourg, who is very much of a personage. After she has given my sister-in-law and myself our French lessons (for I still go on studying), she gives the cook his orders, gives out the linen, writes the letters, smooths away all annoyances, pays the bills, and keeps the accounts, which she does in an oriental sort of way, with such fantastic summings-up that my poor father-in-law is often on the verge of distraction.
Our stables are well garnished; there are eleven horses (my pair included), fourteen carriages, three coachmen, and no end of stable-boys. My coachman, who was one of the "anciens zouaves"--so renowned for their bravery--generally has cramps when he is told that I am going to drive myself to Paris. And when I drive those twelve miles I do it in double- quick time with Medjé and Hilda, my two "limousin" horses. No wonder Louis offers up a prayer to the saints before starting, and sits, holding with both hands on to his little seat back of me, with an expression on his face of "O Lord, what is going to happen?"
PARIS, _January, 1863._
DEAREST MAMA,--I have been expecting letters from you and home for a long time, but nothing has come yet.
The coldest day that Paris has ever known, since goodness knows when, has suddenly burst upon us, and skating is just dawning on the Parisians.
The ice on the little lake of Suresnes has frozen _d'emblée_, and I was crazy to go there and skate. We had stayed late in the country, having spent Christmas en famille, and only returned to Paris a few days ago. I had just received the skates you sent me for my Christmas present, and I was wild to try them. What beauties they are! My old ones, with their screws and their innumerable straps, seem horribly complicated and clumsy. As you advised, I had very tight-fitting boots with low heels made for them. I drove out to the Bois with baby and his nounou, and to gain time put on my skates in the carriage, and when I arrived, I walked down to the lake. I never saw such splendid ice (and I have seen many ices). No tardy layers, no treacherous holes, just one even mirror of marble. Imagine my surprise at not seeing a person on the ice; but there were masses of spectators gathered on the edge of the lake looking at it. The Emperor and the Empress were there. I knew them by sight; but the only one I knew personally was Prince Joachim Murat, our neighbor in the country. He married Elizabeth Wagram, and they lived with her parents at Gros-Bois, near Petit Val.
Therefore, I stood unknown and unnoticed. I ventured one foot on