In the Courts of Memory, 1858-1875; from Contemporary Letters (2024)

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[Illustration: MADAME CHARLES MOULTON]

IN THE COURTS OF MEMORY1858-1875FROM CONTEMPORARY LETTERS

BYL. DE HEGERMANN-LINDENCRONE

ILLUSTRATIONS MADAME CHARLES MOULTON THE FAY HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS EMPEROR NAPOLEON III EMPRESS EUGÉNIE DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT AUBER FACSIMILE OF LETTER FROM THE DUKE DE MORNY JENNY LIND THE MAIN FAÇADE—CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE SALLE DES FÊTES—CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS THE MUSIC HALL—CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE FACSIMILE OF LETTER FROM JENNY LIND FACSIMILE OF LISZT LETTER MÉRIMÉE'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS LA SALLE DES PREUX—CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS…. PRINCE METTERNICH'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS NAPOLEON'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS EMPRESS EUGÉNIE'S SIGNATURE AND ANSWERS TO MADAME MOULTON'S QUESTIONS ELIHU WASHBURN RUE DE RIVOLI, WHERE THE HÔTEL CONTINENTAL NOW STANDS RAOUL RIGAULT FACSIMILE OF PASSPORT ISSUED TO MADAME MOULTON DURING THE COMMUNE FACSIMILE OF THE GOVERNMENT PERMIT TO KEEP COWS PLACE VENDÔME AFTER THE FALL OF THE COLUMN FACSIMILE OF TICKET TO PLACE VENDÔME FACSIMILE OF ENVELOPE ADDRESSED BY THE EMPRESS EUGÉNIE TO PRINCE METTERNICH GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI

PREFACE

These letters, written by me in my younger days to a dear and indulgentmother and aunt, were returned to me after their death. In writing them Iallowed myself to go into the smallest details, even the mostinsignificant ones, as I was sure that they would be welcome andappreciated by those to whom they were addressed. They were certainly notintended to be made public.

If I have decided, after much hesitation, to publish these letters, it isbecause many of my friends, having read them, have urged me to do so,thinking that they might be of interest, inasmuch as they refer to someimportant events of the past, and especially to people of the musicalworld whose names and renown are not yet forgotten.

LILLIE DE HEGERMANN-LINDENCRONE. BERLIN, July, 1912.

NOTE

Madame de Hegermann-Lindencrone, the writer of these letters, which giveso vivid a picture of the brilliant court of the last Napoleon, is thewife of the present Danish Minister to Germany. She was formerly MissLillie Greenough, of Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she lived with hergrandfather, Judge Fay, in the fine old Fay mansion, now the property ofRadcliffe College.

As a child Miss Greenough developed the remarkable voice which later wasto make her well known, and when only fifteen years of age her mother tookher to London to study under Garcia. Two years later Miss Greenough becamethe wife of Charles Moulton, the son of a well-known American banker, whohad been a resident in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe. As MadameCharles Moulton, the charming American became an appreciated guest at thecourt of Napoleon III. The Paris papers of the days of the Second Empireare filled with the praises of her personal attractions and exquisitesinging.

After nine years of gaiety in the gayest city in the world came the war of1870 and the Commune. Upon the fall of the Empire, Mrs. Moulton returnedto America, where Mr. Moulton died, and a few years afterward she marriedM. de Hegermann-Lindencrone, at that time Danish Minister to the UnitedStates, and later successively his country's representative at Stockholm,Rome, and Paris.

Few persons of her day have known so many of those whom the world hascounted great. Among her friends have been not only the ruling monarchs ofseveral countries, and the most distinguished men and women of theircourts, but almost all the really important figures in the world of musicof the past half-century, among them Wagner, Liszt, Auber, Gounod, andRossini. And of many of these great men the letters give us glimpses ofthe most fascinatingly intimate sort.

IN THE COURTS OF MEMORY

CAMBRIDGE, 1856.

DEAR M.,—You say in your last letter, "Do tell me something about yourschool." If I only had the time, I could write volumes about my school,and especially about my teachers.

To begin with, Professor Agassiz gives us lectures on zoölogy, geology,and all other ologies, and draws pictures on the blackboard of trilobitesand different fossils, which is very amusing. We call him "Father Nature,"and we all adore him and try to imitate his funny Swiss accent.

Professor Pierce, who is, you know, the greatest mathematician in theworld, teaches us mathematics and has an awful time of it; we must be verystupid, for the more he explains, the less we seem to understand, and whenhe gets on the rule of three we almost faint from dizziness. If he wouldonly explain the rule of one! The Harvard students say that his book onmathematics is so intricate that not one of them can solve the problems.

We learn history and mythology from Professor Felton, who is very near-sighted, wears broad-brimmed spectacles, and shakes his curly locks at uswhen he thinks we are frivolous. He was rather nonplussed the other day,when Louise Child read out loud in the mythology lesson something about"Jupiter and ten." "What," cried Mr. Felton, "what are you reading? Youmean 'Jupiter and Io,' don't you?" "It says ten here," she answered.

Young Mr. Agassiz teaches us German and French; we read Balzac's Les
Chouans and Schiller's Wallenstein.

Our Italian teacher, Luigi Monti, is a refugee from Italy, and has a sadand mysterious look in his black eyes; he can hardly speak English, so wehave things pretty much our own way during the lessons, for he cannotcorrect us. One of the girls, translating capelli neri, said "blackhats," and he never saw the mistake, though we were all dying of laughter.

No one takes lessons in Greek from long-bearded, fierce-eyed ProfessorEvangelinus Apostolides Sophocles, so he is left in peace. He does notcome more than once a week anyway, and then only to say it is no use hiscoming at all.

Cousin James Lowell replaces Mr. Longfellow the days he can't come. Hereads selections of "literary treasures," as he calls them, and on whichhe discourses at length. He seems very dull and solemn when he is inschool; not at all as he is at home. When he comes in of an afternoon andreads his poems to aunty and to an admiring circle of cousins and sisters-in-law, they all roar with laughter, particularly when he reads them witha Yankee accent. He has such a rippling little giggle while reading, thatit is impossible not to laugh.

The other day he said to me, "Cousin Lillie, I will take you out for awalk in recess." I said, "Nothing I should like better, but I can't go.""Why not?" said he. "Because I must go and be a beggar." "What do youmean?" he asked. "I mean that there is a duet that Mrs. Agassiz favorsjust now, from Meyerbeer's 'Le Prophète,' where she is beggar number oneand I am beggar number two." He laughed. "You are a lucky little beggar,anyway. I envy you." "Envy me? I thought you would pity me," I said. "No,I do not pity you, I envy you being a beggar with a voice!"

I consider myself a victim. In recess, when the other girls walk in QuincyStreet and eat their apples, Mrs. Agassiz lures me into the parlor andmakes me sing duets with her and her sister, Miss Carey. I hear the girlsfiling out of the door, while I am caged behind the piano, singing, "HearMe, Norma," wishing Norma and her twins in Jericho.

There are about fourteen pupils now; we go every morning at nine o'clockand stay till two o'clock. We climb up the three stories in the Agassizhouse and wait for our teachers, who never are on time. Sometimes schooldoes not begin for half an hour.

Mrs. Agassiz comes in, and we all get up to say good morning to her. Asthere is nothing else left for her to teach, she teaches us manners. Shelooks us over, and holds up a warning finger smilingly. She is so sweetand gentle.

I don't wonder that you think it extraordinary that all these fineteachers, who are the best in Harvard College, should teach us; but thereason is, that the Agassiz's have built a new house and find it difficultto pay for it, so their friends have promised to help them to start thisschool, and by lending their names they have put it on its legs, so tospeak.

The other day I was awfully mortified. Mr. Longfellow, who teaches usliterature, explained all about rhythm, measures, and the feet used inpoetry. The idea of poetry having feet seemed so ridiculous that I thoughtout a beautiful joke, which I expected would amuse the school immensely;so when he said to me in the lesson, "Miss Greenough, can you tell me whatblank verse is?" I answered promptly and boldly, "Blank verse is like ablank-book; there is nothing in it, not even feet," and looked around foradmiration, but only saw disapproval written everywhere, and Mr.Longfellow, looking very grave, passed on to the next girl. I never feltso ashamed in my life.

Mr. Longfellow, on passing our house, told aunty that he was coming in theafternoon, to speak to me; aunty was worried and so was I, but when hecame I happened to be singing Schubert's "Dein ist mein Herz," one ofaunty's songs, and he said, "Go on. Please don't stop." When I hadfinished he said:

"I came to scold you for your flippancy this morning, but you have only tosing to take the words out of my mouth, and to be forgiven."

"And I hope you will forget," I said, penitently.

"I have already forgotten," he answered, affectionately. "How can one beangry with a dear little bird? But don't try again to be so witty."

"Never again, I promise you."

"That's the dear girl you are, and 'Dein ist mein Herz'!" He stooped downand kissed me.

I burst into tears, and kissed his hand. This is to show you what a dear,kind man Mr. Longfellow is.

[Illustration: THE FAY HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS]

CAMBRIDGE, June, 1857.

If you were here, dear mama, I would sing, "Oh, Wake and Call Me Early,Call Me Early, Mother Dear," for I am to dance the quadrille on the"Green" on Class Day. To be asked by a Harvard graduate to be one of thefour girls to dance is a great compliment. All the college windows arefull of people gazing at you, and just think of the other girls, who arefilled with envy fuller than the windows!

Aunty is "pestered" (as she calls it) to death by people wanting me tosing for their charities. Every one has a pet charity, which it seems mustbe attended to just at this time, and they clamor for help from me, andaunty has not the courage to say "no." Therefore, about once a week I amdressed in the white muslin and the black shoes, which is my gala get-up,and a carriage is sent for me. Then aunty and I are driven to the ConcertHall, where, when my turn comes, I go on the platform and sing, "CastaDiva," "Ah, non Credea," etc., and if I am encored then I sing, "ComingThro' the Rye."

I am sure every one says that it is a shame to make me sing, but they makeme sing, all the same. I enjoy the applause and the excitement—who wouldnot? What I do not enjoy is being obliged to sing in church everySunday. Dr. Hoppin has persuaded aunty to let me help in the choir; thatis, to sing the Anthem and the "Te Deum," but it amounts to my doing aboutall the singing. Don't you think this is cruel? However, there is one hymnI love to sing, and that is, "Shout the Glad Tidings, Exultingly Sing." Iput my whole heart and soul in this, and soon find myself shouting the"glad tidings" all alone, my companions having left me in the lurch.

We laughed very much at aunty's efforts in the Anti-slavery movement (justnow at its height), when all Massachusetts has risen up with a bound inorder to prove that the blacks are as good as the whites (if not better),and should have all their privileges. She, wishing to demonstrate thispoint, introduced Joshua Green, a little colored boy (the washerwoman'sson), into the Sunday-school class. The general indignation among thewhite boys did not dismay her, as she hoped that Joshua would come up tothe mark. The answer to the first question in the catechism (what is yourname?), he knew, and answered boldly, "Joshua Green." But the secondquestion, "Who made you?" was the stumbling-block. He sometimes answered,"Father," and sometimes, "Mother." Aunty, being afraid that he wouldanswer, "Miss Fay," had him come to the house during the week, where shecould din into him that it was God who made him and all creation. "Now,Joshua, when Dr. Hoppin says to you, 'Who made you?' you must answer,'God, who made everything on earth and in heaven'—you understand?" "Yes,ma'am," and repeated the phrase until aunty thought him ripe to appear atSunday-school, which he did on the following Sunday. You may imagineaunty's consternation when Dr. Hoppin asked Joshua, "Who made you?" andJoshua looked at aunty with a broad grin, showing all his teeth, and said,"Lor', Miss Fay, I forget who you said it was." This was aunty's lasteffort to teach the blacks. She repeated this episode to Mr. PhillipsBrooks, who, in return, told her an amusing story of a colored man who hadbeen converted to the Catholic religion, and went one day to confession(he seems not to have been very sure about this function). The priest saidto him, "Israel, what have you to confess? Have you been perfectly honestsince the last time? No thefts?"

"No, sir."

"None at all? Stolen no chickens?"

"No, sir."

"No watermelons?"

"No, sir."

"No eggs?"

"No, sir."

"No turkeys?"

"No, sir; not one."

Then the priest gave absolution. Outside the church Israel found thecompanions whom he had left waiting for him.

"Well, how did you get on?" they asked.

"Bully!" answered Israel. "But if he'd said ducks he'd have got me."

Cousin James Lowell said: "See how a negro appreciates the advantages ofthe confession."

DEAR L.,—A family council was held yesterday, and it is now quite decidedthat mama is to take me to Europe, and that I shall study singing with thebest masters. We will first go to New York for a visit of ten days withMr. and Mrs. Cooley. I shall see New York and hear a little music; andthen we start for Europe on the 17th in the Commodore Vanderbilt.

NEW YORK.

DEAR AUNT,—We have now been here a week, and I feel ashamed that I havenot written to you before, but I have been doing a great deal. The Cooleyshave a gorgeous house in Fifth Avenue, furnished with every luxury one canimagine. The sitting-room, dining-room, library, and a conservatory nextto the billiard-room, are down-stairs; up-stairs are the drawing-rooms(first, second, and third), which open into a marble-floored Pompeianroom, with a fountain. Then comes mama's and my bed-room, with bath-roomattached. On the third floor the family have their apartment. We have beenmany times to the opera, and heard an Italian tenor, called Brignoli, whompeople are crazy over. He has a lovely voice and sings in "Trovatore."Last night, when he sang "Di quella pira," people's enthusiasm knew nobounds. They stood up and shouted, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs;he had to repeat it three times, and each time people got wilder. Nina andI clapped till our gloves were in pieces and our arms actually ached.

A Frenchman by the name of Musard has brought over a French orchestra, andis playing French music at the opera-house. People are wild over him also.Madame La Grange, who they say is a fine lady in her own country, issinging in "The Huguenots." She has rather a thin voice, but vocalizesbeautifully. Nina and I weep over the hard fate of Valentine, who has tobe present when her husband is conspiring against the Huguenots, knowingthat her lover is listening behind the curtain and can't get away. Thepriests come in and bless the conspiracy, all the conspirators holdingtheir swords forward to be blessed. This music is really too splendid forwords, and we enjoy it intensely.

Mr. Bancroft, the celebrated historian, invited us to dinner, and afterdinner they asked me to sing. I had to accompany myself. Every onepretended that they were enchanted. Just for fun, at the end I sang,"Three Little Kittens Took Off Their Mittens, to Eat a Christmas Pie," andone lady (would you believe it?) said she wept tears of joy, and had coldshivers down her back. When I sang, "For We Have Found Our Mittens," therewas, she said, such a jubilant ring in my voice that her heart leaped forjoy.

Mr. Bancroft sent me the next day a volume of Bryant's poems, with thededication, "To Miss Lillie Greenough, in souvenir of a never-forgetableevening." I made so many acquaintances, and received so many invitations,that if we should stay much longer here there would be nothing left of meto take to Europe.

I will write as soon as we arrive on the other side. On whatever side Iam, I am always your loving niece, who thinks that there is no one in thewide world to compare to you, that no one is as clever as you, that no onecan sing like you, and that there never was any one who can hold a candleto you. There!

BREMEN, August, 1859.

DEAR AUNT,—At last we have arrived at our journey's end, and we are happyto have got out of and away from the steamer, where we have been cooped upfor the last weeks. However, we had a very gay time during those weeks,and some very sprightly companions. Among them a runaway couple; he was aMr. Aulick Palmer, but I don't know who she was. One could have learned iteasily enough for the asking, as they were delighted to talk aboutthemselves and their elopement, and how they did it. It was their favoritetopic of conversation. I was intensely interested in them; I had neverbeen so near a romance in my life. They had been married one hour whenthey came on board; she told her parents that she was going out shopping,and then, after the marriage, wrote a note to them to say that she wasmarried and off to Europe, adding that she was not sorry for what she haddone. He is a handsome man, tall and dark; she is a jolly, buxom blonde,with a charming smile which shows all her thirty and something teeth, andmakes her red, thick lips uncurl. I thought, for such a newly marriedcouple, they were not at all sentimental, which I should have supposednatural. She became sea-sick directly, and he called attention to her asshe lay stretched out on a bench looking dreadfully green in the face: "Weare a sick couple—home-sick, love-sick, and sea-sick."

The captain, who thought himself a wag but who forgot every morning whathe had wagged about the day before, would say for his daily greeting, "Wie[as the Germans say] befinden sie sich?" He thought the pun on sea-sickwas awfully funny, and would laugh uproariously. He said to Mr. Palmer,"Why are you not like a melon?" We all guessed. One person said, "Becausehe was not meloncholic [Aulick]." But all the guesses were wrong. "No,"said the captain, "it is because the melon can't elope, and you can." Hethought himself very funny, and was rather put out that we did not thinkhim so, and went on repeating the joke to every one on the boat adnauseam.

LONDON, 1859.

DEAREST A.,—We arrived here, as we intended, on the 27th…. We easilyfound Garcia's address, and drove there without delay. I was very anxiousto see the "greatest singing master in the world," and there he wasstanding before me, looking very much as I had imagined him; but not likeany one I had ever seen before. He has grayish hair and a black mustache,expressive big eyes, and such a fascinating smile! Mama said, having heardof his great reputation, she wished that he would consent to give me afew lessons. He smiled, and answered that, if I would kindly singsomething for him, he could better judge how much teaching I required. Ireplied—I was so sure of myself—that, if he would accompany "Qui lavoce," I would sing that. "Ha, ha!" he cried, with a certain sarcasm. "Byall means let us have that," and sat down before the piano while I spreadout the music before him. I sang, and thought I sang very well; but hejust looked up into my face with a very quizzical expression, and said,"How long have you been singing, Mademoiselle?" Mama answered for mebefore I could speak. "She has sung, Monsieur, since she was a very smallchild."

He was not at all impressed by this, but said, "I thought so." Then hecontinued. "You say you would like to take some lessons of me?" I wasbecoming very humble, and said, meekly, that I hoped he would give mesome. "Well, Mademoiselle, you have a very wonderful voice, but you havenot the remotest idea how to sing." What a come-down! I, who thought I hadonly to open my mouth to be admired, and only needed a few finishingtouches to make me perfect, to be told that I had "not the remotest ideahow to sing"!

Mama and I both gasped for breath, and I could have cried fordisappointment as well as mortification. However, I felt he was right,and, strange to say, mama felt so too. He said, "Take six months' rest anddon't sing a single note, then come back to me." When he saw thecrestfallen look on my face, he added, kindly, "Then we shall seesomething wonderful."

We leave for Dresden this evening…. Love to all.

Your humble

LILLIE.

LONDON, May, 1860.

DEAR A.,—I have not written since we left the kind V. Rensselaers inDresden. Mama must have given you all the details of our life there…. Ihope, now that I have studied French, German, and Italian like a goodlittle girl for six months and not "sung a single note," that I mayventure to present myself before the great Garcia again.

I can't imagine that I am the same person who has (it seems to me yearsago) sung before large, distinguished, and enthusiastic audiences, hasbeen a little belle, in a way, in Cambridge, has had serenades from theHarvard Glee Club (poor aunty! routed out of your sleep in the middle ofthe night to listen to them), inspired poetry, and danced on "the Green"on Class Day. I felt as if I ought to put on pantalettes and wear my hairdown my back. I look now upon myself as a real Backfisch, as the Germanscall very young girls, and that is simply what I am; and I feel that Iought never to have been allowed to sport about in those fascinating clearwaters which reflected no shadows, now that I must go back to the millpondand learn to swim.

I have been already three weeks studying hard with Garcia, who is not onlya wonderful teacher, but is a wonderful personality. I simply worship him,though he is very severe and pulls me up directly I "slipshod," as hecalls it; and so far I have literally sung nothing but scales. He saysthat a scale must be like a beautiful row of pearls: each note like apearl, perfect in roundness and color.

This is so easy to say, but very difficult to accomplish. Stone-breakingon the highroad is nothing to it. I come home tired out from my lessons,only to begin singing scales again. I tell mama I feel like a fish withthe scales being taken off him.

Four hours by myself and two lessons a week will soon reduce your poorniece to a scaleton. Ah! please forgive this….

No question of a song yet. "Qui la voce" seems way back in the MiddleAges. Garcia says, "If, when your voice is well oiled [that is what hecalls the scaling process], you are not intelligent enough to sing a songby yourself, then you had better knit stockings for the poor."

"Then," I answered, "I had better begin at once to learn to knitstockings."

"Not quite yet!" he laughed. "Wait till I have finished with you." Morethan once he has said, "Your voice reminds me of my sister Marie's[meaning Malibran]; but she had no brains to speak of, whereas you have,and you ought to be thankful for it."

I murmured that I was glad he thought so, and, if I really had somebrains, I should be thankful; but I was not quite sure that I had. "Trustme to tell you if you have not," said he.

I trusted him, indeed, for I knew very well that he would not let theoccasion slip had he anything of that sort to say.

LONDON, July, 1860.

DEAR A.,—Still hard at work. I wonder at mama's patience and endurance.To hear scales, cadenzas, and trills from morning till night must beterribly wearing on the nerves. I said as much to the master, and heconsented to give me "Bel raggio," of "Semiramide." It is as good as anexercise, anyway, because it is nothing but cadenzas. Then he allowed meto sing "Una voce poco fa." I told him that mama had put on a pound offlesh since I was permitted to roam in these fresh pastures. This made himlaugh. After he had seen that I had "brains enough" to sing these songsaccording to his august liking, he said, "Now we will try 'Voi chesapete,' of Mozart."

Garcia has not the ghost of a voice; but he has the most enchanting way ofsinging mezzo-voce, and occasionally says, "Sing this so," and sings thephrase for me. It sounds delightfully when he does it; but I do not thinkhe would have liked me to "sing it so" and would probably swear a gentlelittle Spanish swear under his garlicky breath, because (I say it, thoughI hate to) the dear master eats garlic—pounds of it, I fear—and hisvoice is highly scented when it cracks, which it often does.

He once said, "You may imitate my way of singing, but don't imitate mycrack."

"Oh," I said, "I love to hear you sing. I don't even hear the crack."

"Ah," he sighed, "if it had not been for that crack I should be in theopera now."

"I am glad," I answered, "that you are not there; for then you would notbe here, teaching me." I think this pleased him.

Sometimes he is very nervous. Once, when I was singing "Voi che sapete,"the tears rolled down his cheeks, and another time, when he was showing mehow to sing it "so," I burst into tears, and the poor man had to order hisservant to bring me some sherry to restore my nerves. There is one phrasein this song which I never can hear sung, or never can sing myself,without emotion.

The season is getting so late mama thinks we ought to leave London,especially as Garcia is taking his vacation, and we are going in a fewdays to Paris.

Garcia has given us a letter to his sister, Madame Viardot (of whom hesaid she had brains but no voice). He wrote: "I send you my pupil. Do allyou can to persuade her to go on the stage. She has it in her."

But Madame Viardot may "do all she can"; I will never go on the stage.

If "it" is in me, it must work out some other way.

PARIS, May, 1861.

DEAR A.,—Mother will have written to you of my engagement to CharlesMoulton. I wish you would come and see me married, and that I couldpresent all my future family to the most lovable of aunts.

I think I shall have everything to make me happy. In the first place, myfiancé is very musical, composes charming things, and plays delightfullyon the piano; my future mother-in-law is a dear old lady, musical anduniversally talented; my future father-in-law is a bona-fide American, adear quixotic old gentleman who speaks the most awful French. Although hehas lived in Paris for forty years, he has never conquered thepronunciation of the French language, but has invented a unique dialect ofhis own. Every word that can be pronounced in English he pronounces inEnglish, as well as all numbers. For instance, a phrase such as Laguerre de mille huit cent quinze était une démonstration de la liberténationale would sound like this: "La gur de 1815 (in English) étaitune demonstration (in English) de la liberty national." It is almostimpossible to understand him; but he will read for hours unabashed, notonly to us, the drowsy and inattentive members of his family, but to themost fastidious and illustrious Frenchmen. There are two brothers and asweet little sister. I shall have a beautiful home, or rather homes,because they have not only a handsome hotel in Paris, but an ideal countryplace (Petit Val) and a villa in Dinard.

Good-by. Greet all the united family from me, and tell them not to worryover my future, as you wrote they were doing. I have renounced forever thepomps and allurements of the stage, and I trust the leaves on thegenealogical tree will cease their trembling, and that the Fays, myancestors, will not trouble themselves to turn in their graves, as youthreatened they would if I did anything to disgrace them.

CHÂTEAU DE PETIT VAL, June, 1862.

DEAREST A.,—I wish I could give you an idea of Petit Val and our life aslived by me. Petit Val is about twelve miles from Paris, and was built forthe Marquis de Marigny, whose portrait still hangs in the salon—thebrother of Madame de Pompadour—by the same architect who built and laidout the park of Petit Trianon.

There is an avenue of tall poplar-trees leading from Petit Val straight to
Choisy-le-Roi, where Madame de Pompadour lived, a distance of ten miles.

Like Petit Trianon, Petit Val has little lakes with shady trees borderingthem; it has grottos, waterfalls, winding paths, magnificent greenhouses,fountains, a rivière, pavilions, aviaries, terraces, charmilles,berceaux, enfin tout! One feels like saying, "Mein Liebchen, waswillst du mehr?" as the poet Heine says. The park is surrounded by a sautde loup (a sunken wall about twenty feet high like "la Muette" in Paris).There is no need of putting up sign-boards with "No trespassing here" asno one could scale the walls of the saut de loup, so we feel very safe,especially when the five iron gates are locked. Beyond the park are thechasse, the farm, the vineyards, and the potager. We are so near Paristhat we have many visitors. The drive out here is a pleasant one, goingthrough Vincennes, Charenton, Alfort, etc., and one can get here in aboutan hour. Duke de Morny, the Duke de Persigny and the Rothschild family,Prince de Sagan, and different diplomats, not to speak of our numerousAmerican friends who are thankful for a breath of fresh air, are frequentguests. The nearest chateau to us is Montalon, where Madame de Sévignéused to live, and from which she wrote some of her letters. If she everwrote a tiresome one, it must surely have been from here, as the damp andmoldy house, covered with creeping vines and overgrown with ivy,surrounded by melancholy cypress and poplar trees, which shut out theview, could scarcely have inspired her with brilliant ideas.

Petit Val's potager is known far and wide for the best peaches andpears in France, and the gardener takes all the prizes in the shows: ifthe prizes are in money, he pockets them; if they are diplomas, he allowsus to keep them. He is a rare old scamp.

When Mr. Moulton bought the place he had the right to call himself "DePetit Val," and he could have—if he had wished to—been "Moulton de PetitVal." 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 obligationswhich belonged to the estate. For instance, he had to give so many bushelsof potatoes to the curé, so many bushels of grain to the doctor, so manybushels of vegetables to the postmaster, and to them all so many casks ofthe awful wine we produce on the estate, known in the vernacular as "lepetit bleu."

When this sour wine is in the golden period of effervescing, any sickchild in the village ticketed by the doctor can be brought to the wine-presses and dipped in. If labeled "très malade," he is dipped intwice. Don't you think that this is a dreadful custom? I think that it isawful to put such an article as this on the market; but then we know thatif a person has tasted it once they never do it again. We try to growgreen corn here; but it degenerates unless the seed is brought every yearfrom America. This year, not having been renewed, the corn is a failure;but the American melons ripen here in perfection, and rivalizesuccessfully with the big French melons. The other day an ambassador ateso many of them that he begged us to let him stay all night. We were quiteanxious about him, as he had an audience with the Emperor the nextmorning; 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 hasgiven my sister-in-law and myself our French lessons (for I still go onstudying), she gives the cook his orders, gives out the linen, writes theletters, smooths away all annoyances, pays the bills, and keeps theaccounts, which she does in an oriental sort of way, with such fantasticsummings-up that my poor father-in-law is often on the verge ofdistraction.

Our stables are well garnished; there are eleven horses (my pairincluded), fourteen carriages, three coachmen, and no end of stable-boys.My coachman, who was one of the "anciens zouaves"—so renowned for theirbravery—generally has cramps when he is told that I am going to drivemyself 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 Louisoffers up a prayer to the saints before starting, and sits, holding withboth hands on to his little seat back of me, with an expression on hisface of "O Lord, what is going to happen?"

PARIS, January, 1863.

DEAREST MAMA,—I have been expecting letters from you and home for a longtime, but nothing has come yet.

The coldest day that Paris has ever known, since goodness knows when, hassuddenly burst upon us, and skating is just dawning on the Parisians.

The ice on the little lake of Suresnes has frozen d'emblée, and Iwas crazy to go there and skate. We had stayed late in the country, havingspent Christmas en famille, and only returned to Paris a few daysago. 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, withtheir screws and their innumerable straps, seem horribly complicated andclumsy. As you advised, I had very tight-fitting boots with low heels madefor them. I drove out to the Bois with baby and his nounou, and togain time put on my skates in the carriage, and when I arrived, I walkeddown to the lake. I never saw such splendid ice (and I have seen manyices). No tardy layers, no treacherous holes, just one even mirror ofmarble. Imagine my surprise at not seeing a person on the ice; but therewere 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 onlyone I knew personally was Prince Joachim Murat, our neighbor in thecountry. He married Elizabeth Wagram, and they lived with her parents atGros-Bois, near Petit Val.

Therefore, I stood unknown and unnoticed. I ventured one foot on theindiscreet, reflecting surface, then the other; and while the assembledcrowd gazed at me in amazement, I made the tour of the lake on my skates.

My experience of seven years on Fresh Pond did not fail me, and I skimmedover the flawless ice on the outer edge, like a bird with close-fittingwings; indeed, I felt like one. The ice was so clear that one could seethe grass and stones at the bottom.

This was an exhilarating moment!

When I returned to the starting-place I saw that no one had dared tofollow my example, and as an act of (I hardly dare to write it) sillybravoura I took baby out of the nurse's arms, and with him gurglingand chuckling with delight, his little head on my shoulder, I skatedaround with him. Only once! Don't scold me! I felt directly what awicked thing I was doing, for, if there had been a stone or a branchfrozen in the ice, I might have fallen, and then—what might not havehappened! But as long as I was alone and sure of my skates I was notafraid. I saw some of the more courageous skaters beginning to invade theice, and I flew back, thoroughly ashamed of myself, and delivered my rosyburden into the arms of its nurse, who stood aghast, like a frozen Niobe,with wide eyes, watching me, the foolish mother. I sent them back to Parisin the coupé, begging my husband to come and fetch me. I was vain enoughto wish him to see me in my glory.

Prince Murat came up to speak to me. As we saw the Emperor, who was onskates, coming toward us, Prince Murat said, "Here comes the Emperor tospeak to you." I felt dreadfully frightened, for I was not sure—it beingthe first time I had ever spoken to a sovereign—what was the propermanner to address him. I knew I must say "Sire," and "votre Majesté"; butwhen and how often I did not know. His Majesty held in his hand a shortstick with an iron point, such as are used in climbing the Alps, andmanaged to propel himself forward by little right-legged shunts, his leftleg not daring to do anything but slide, and stopped like an enginenearing a station, puffing and out of breath. Prince Murat moved aside,and his Majesty looked at me, then at Prince Murat, who, in anintroductory manner, said "This is Madame Moulton, your Majesty, thedaughter-in-law of our neighbor, whom you know." "Ah!" said the Emperor,and, turning to me, he said, "How beautifully you skate, Madame; it iswonderful to look at you!"

[Illustration: EMPEROR NAPOLEON III]

I (frightened out of my wits) murmured that I had skated since I was eightyears old. "One can only skate like that when one learns young," theEmperor said. And while I was wondering when I should say "Votre Majesté,"he said, "Oserai-je demander à une patineuse si parfaite de patiner avecun humble patineur (Dare I ask such a perfect skater as you to skate withso humble a skater as myself)?"

He was a humble skater indeed! I answered that it would be a great honorto me. He then stretched out his hands, and I took them very much as Iwould have taken any one else's hands, and we ambled forth, I supportingand upholding the tottering steps of the monarch of the French nation. Ifelt that the eye of the nation was on me, and, indeed, it was, as much ofthe nation as happened to be there; but, proud as I was, I wished thatsome one would relieve me of this responsibility. Suppose his Majestyshould fall!… Dreadful thought! The Emperor skated on silently, intenton balancing himself, and I, you may be sure, was intent on keeping himintent. He stumbled at every stroke; but as I was on his left side—theweak one—we got along very nicely, and we felt that we were being admired—patineusem*nt. His hat fell off once (he skated in a tall hat), and Ihad to pick it up for him while he clung to my hand and lifted his otherhand to put the hat on his head. In our course we came upon the Empress,and we slowed down neatly. She was being supported by two very "trembling"chamberlains, who almost knocked us down in their efforts to keep theirbalance. When we had come to anchor the Emperor said to the Empress, "Thisis Madame Moulton! Does she not skate beautifully?" I ought to have made acourtesy, but how could I—on skates?

The Empress was dressed in a more suitable style than the other ladies,who evidently were going on to some reception (the idea of combiningvisiting and skating!), and had rather long dresses, high heels and hats.The Empress, though crinolined and high-heeled, had a short skirt. I had ashort cloth dress bordered with fur and a little fur toque. The Empresslooked very kindly at me and said something to the Emperor which escapedme. When—oh, when—should I say "Your Majesty"? But I forgot everything,gazing at the Empress, who appeared as a vision of beauty, with a brightcolor in her cheeks, her eyes sparkling with animation. The Emperor saidto her, "Tu devrais patiner avec Madame (You ought to skate with Madame),"letting go my hands. With the sweetest smile she said to me, "Willyou skate with me?" Of course I was only too enchanted. Could I upholdthe throne in which her Majesty was strapped? I took her two hands, and wesped on our way as best we could. I had sometimes to dig my skates in theice to prevent too much speed, and to keep us both on our legs, one pairof which were Imperial. "How strange!" said her Majesty, in a moment ofbreath-taking, "that I should have never seen you before, and yet, as theEmperor says, you live in Paris!"

I replied: "Your Majesty [at last I said it], I spent last winter in thecountry taking care of my health, and last summer I was in Dinard."

"Ah, je comprends," with a lovely smile, "and now?"

"Now, your Majesty [I was getting on nicely], I am going to be presentedto society in due form by my mother-in-law."

"You will then come to the Tuileries?"

"Of course, your Majesty [now I had complete court manners], I shall comethere first. My mother-in law will take the necessary steps."

"But you will not need to go through all those steps," she said,smilingly, "now that we know you"; and added, most kindly, "To-morrow youmust come and skate with us again."

After this little breathing spell we went off on another tour, and as allis well that ends better than you expect, I was thankful to bring herMajesty back safely. We were hailed with enthusiasm. Charles, coming backwith the coupé, was duly complimented by both their Majesties on theprowess of his spouse. And so we drove home.

Here endeth the first chapter and my first appearance in Parisian society.

January, 1863.

DEAR M.,—We received the invitation for the first ball at the Tuileriesbefore my mother-in-law had presented me to the Grande Maîtresse duch*essede Bassano; but her reception-day being on the same day as the ball I wasable, fortunately, to go there and to be presented to her. Mrs. M—-preferred to make the "preliminary steps" with me in her wake.

My wedding-dress, trimmed with the beautiful lace (which came in mycorbeille), seemed the proper thing to wear. The gentlemen's costumesare "culottes courtes blanches, white silk stockings, and a dress-coatwith gold buttons." My mother-in-law had been under the coiffeur's tongsfor hours, and when she reappeared, frizzled and curled, she looked sounnatural that we hardly recognized her. My father-in-law refused pointblank to go with us. When asked, "Don't you want to see Lillie's firstappearance?" he answered, "I shall see her before she goes. It is notlikely I shall see much of her when she is once there." Which wouldprobably have been the case.

Mrs. Moulton, wishing to go in style, ordered the gala Cinderella coachwhich served at my wedding. It used to take my parents-in-law to and fromthe Tuileries in the time of Louis Philippe. One can see the like inVersailles, all glass in front, white satin inside, with steps to letdown, and swung on eight undulating springs. Charles went in our coupé,and I must say I envied him.

It is a long drive from the Rue de Courcelles to the Tuileries, and ittakes a long time, especially when the queue commences at the Placede la Concorde. I was almost dizzy as we advanced step by step, pulling upat every moment, rocking and swaying like a row-boat in a gentle swell,and when we got a chance to go faster the carriage rocked from side toside, all the fringe on the coachman's box waving about. The coachman wasa study in himself, with his white wig and silk stockings, ensconced likea hen on her nest. The valet, with powdered hair, white silk stockings,and plush breeches, stood on his little platform behind the carriage,holding on to the two cords on the side. I felt very fine, but not fineenough to prevent my feeling a little sea-sick, and I could not helpthinking that it was a great pity to put on such style at night, when noone could see us. I would have liked better to have been seen in thedaytime in this pomp and glory.

When at last we did arrive my mother-in-law's feathers were somewhat awry.
We mounted the stately staircase, lined on both sides by the superb Cent
Gardes, standing like statues on each step.

Many chamberlains were waiting, and we were conducted to the Grand Maîtrede Cérémonie, who passed us on to a less grand Maître de Cérémonie, whoshowed us to the place where we were to stand in the ballroom. It was amagnificent sight, and as long as I live I shall never forget it.

The beautifully dressed ladies were covered with jewels, and the gentlemenin their showy uniforms were covered with decorations. Each lady showed togreat advantage, as, on account of the width of their crinolines, they hadto stand very far apart.

The entire ballroom was lighted with wax candles, and was really a fairyscene. At the end of the ballroom was the platform on which stood thethrone of their Majesties, a row of red-velvet gilded fauteuils placedbehind them for the Imperial family. The hangings over the throne, whichwere of heavy red velvet with the Napoleonic eagle in gold, fell in greatfolds down to the floor.

It was not long before the doors were thrown open, and every one who hadbeen limp and lax while waiting, chatting with his neighbor, straightenedhimself up and bowed to the ground, as the Emperor and the Empress walkedin. Their Majesties stood for a moment at the door, and then wentimmediately to the throne.

A few moments later the quadrille d'honneur was danced by the eightmost princely of the guests. The Emperor danced with the Princess ofWales, who has the prettiest and sweetest face one can imagine. TheEmpress danced with the King of Saxony; the Prince of Wales with thePrincess Mathilde, cousin of the Emperor; the Grand Duke of Russia withthe Princess Clothilde.

Every one stood during the whole quadrille. After that was finished their
Majesties circulated among us, talking to different people. Later on the
Empress, when she had returned to the throne, sent a message to me by
Prince Murat, that she wished me to come to her.

I was frightened to death to have to cross the ballroom, feeling as if alleyes were on me, and tripped along so quickly that Prince Murat, at myside, said, "Don't hurry so; I can't keep up with you."

While I stood before the steps of the throne the Empress came toward me,and with her exquisite smile, and with the peculiar charm she has whenspeaking, said, "I am so glad to see you here, Madame Moulton." "And I amso glad to be here, your Majesty; but I went through all the preliminarysteps all the same," I said, "because ma belle-mère insisted upon it."

This seemed to amuse her, and after a few gracious words she left me.

As this was the first time I had seen her in evening dress, I wascompletely dazed by her loveliness and beauty. I can't imagine a morebeautiful apparition than she was. Her delicate coloring, the pose of herhead, her hair, her expressive mouth, her beautiful shoulders, andwonderful grace make a perfect ensemble.

[Illustration: EMPRESS EUGÉNIE]

She wore a white tulle dress trimmed with red velvet bows and goldfringes; her crown of diamonds and pearls and her necklace weremagnificent.

On her breast shone the great diamond (the Regent) which belongs to the
Crown.

When I gazed on her in all her glory and prestige I could hardly believethat we had been such chums a few days before, when skating, and that Ihad held her hands clasped in mine, and had kept her from falling.

Countess Castellane gave a beautiful costume ball the other evening, whichI must tell you about, because it was so original. The stables wereconnected with the salons by a long, carpeted gallery, at the end of whichwas a huge fresco on the walls, representing a horse-race in a verylifelike manner. Through a large plate-glass window one could see thewhole stable, which was, as you may imagine, in spick-and-span order; andCount Castellane's favorite horse was saddled and bridled, a groom in fulllivery standing by its side. It was amusing to see ladies in their balldresses walking about in the stables, where the astonished horses wereblinking in the gas-light.

In one of the quadrilles the ladies and gentlemen were dressed aschildren, in short socks and frocks with enormous sashes.

Princess Metternich was costumed as a milkmaid; she had real silver pailshung over her shoulders. duch*esse de Persigny was a chiffonnière with ahotte on her back and a gray dress very much looped up, showing farabove her wooden shoes.

PARIS, 1863.

DEAR M.,—The ice in the Bois continues very good; I am skating every day.I have commenced to teach the little Prince Imperial. He is very sweet,and talks very intelligently for his age. The other day, when I wasskating with the Empress, a gentleman (I think he was an American),skating backward, knocked against us with such force that the Empress andI both fell. I tried with all my might to keep her from falling, but itwas impossible. Her first words, when we were helped on our feet again,were, "Don't tell the Emperor; I think he did not see us."

That same evening there was a ball at the Tuileries, and when the Empresscame to speak to me she said: "How are you? I can hardly stand up." Ianswered, "I am worse off, your Majesty; I can stand up, but I cannot sitdown."

Yesterday, when I came home from my singing lesson with Delle Sedie, Ifound the family quite excited. The Empress's chamberlain had just beenhere to say that the Empress desired that we would come to the Tuileriesnext Monday, and expressed the wish that I should bring some music. Iwrote to Delle Sedie and begged him to advise me what I should sing; heanswered that he would come himself and talk it over with me, and MonsieurPlanté, a young, budding pianist, who was ordered from the Tuileries toaccompany my songs, was sent for, and Delle Sedie came at the same time.

Delle Sedie thought that I should begin with "Tre Giorni son che Nina," ofPergolesi, and then the air from "Lucia," and if I were asked to singagain the "Valse de Venzano."

On these occasions gentlemen wear the pantalon collant, which is amost unbecoming and trying costume, being of black cloth fitting verytight and tapering down to the ankle, where it finishes abruptly with abutton. Any one with a protruding ankle and thin legs cannot escapecriticism.

Le petit lundi of the Empress was not so petit as I expected; therewere at least four or five hundred people present.

I was presented to the Princess Mathilde (the cousin of the Emperor), avery handsome and distinguished-looking lady, who is married to andseparated from Prince Demidoff. Her palace is directly opposite our hotel.I was also presented to the Princess Clothilde, and many others. I wasvery nervous before singing, but after my first song I did very well.

There was dancing, and everything was very unceremonious and easy. I think(I will just say it to you, dear mama) that I had a success. TheirMajesties were very kind, and thanked me many times, and the Duke de Mornysaid that he was very proud of his protégée, for it was he who hadsuggested to the Empress that I should sing for them. It was a delightfulevening, and I enjoyed myself and my little triumph immensely. I made theacquaintance of the Austrian ambassador and the Princess Metternich. Sheseemed very pleasant, and put me directly at my ease. She is far frombeing handsome, but dresses better than any woman in Paris, and has morechic. In fact, she sets the fashion as much as the Empress does.

The Emperor, at the instigation of the Duke de Morny, has given orders forthe construction of a bridge over the Marne near Petit Val, a thing weneeded greatly. When you were here, if you remember, one had to walk fromthe station to the river, about a little quarter of a mile. Once there youhad to wave and shout for the ferryman, who, before allowing you to get onthe boat, would attend to what cattle or merchandise were waiting therefor transport. I do not think the bridge would have been built had not theDuke de Morny come out by train to Petit Val to avoid the long drive oftwelve miles from Paris, and had been bored by this primitive means oftransporting his august person. He said he was astonished and mortifiedthat such a state of things should exist so near Paris. So was every oneelse. Otherwise the "bac" would have gone on forever.

The Carnival has never been so whirlwindy as it has been this year; and Idon't know how the purses of our lords and masters are going to hold out;and while the poor, "whom we have always with us," are getting rich, therich, whom we don't always have, alas! are getting poor. For the privatefancy-dress ball at the Tuileries last Monday, to which the guests wereinvited by the Empress, Worth alone made costumes to the tune of twohundred thousand dollars, and yet there were not four hundred ladiesinvited.

To begin at the top, the Empress was dressed as the wife of a doge ofVenice of the sixteenth century. She wore all the crown jewels and manyothers. She was literally cuirassée in diamonds, and glittered likea sun-goddess. Her skirt of black velvet over a robe of scarlet satin wascaught up by clusters of diamond brooches. The Prince Imperial was allowedto be present; he was dressed in a black-velvet costume and knee breeches;his little, thin legs black-stockinged, and a manteau Vénitien overhis shoulders. He danced twice, once with Mademoiselle de Châteaubourg,and then with his cousin, Princess Anna Murat, who, being made onJunoesque lines, and dressed as a Dutch peasant with enormous goldornaments over her ears, and a flowing white lace cap, towered above heryouthful partner. He is only seven years old, and rather small for hisage, which made the contrast between him and his colossal partner verystriking. Princess Mathilde looked superb as Holbein's Anne of Clèves. Shewore her famous collection of emeralds, which are world-known.

Princess Clothilde had also copied a picture from the Louvre; but her robeof silver brocade, standing out in great folds about her waist, wasanything but becoming to her style of figure. Princess Augustine Bonaparte(Gabrielli) was in a gorgeous costume of something or other; one had nottime to find out exactly what she was intended to represent; she wascovered with jewelry (some people pretended it was false, but it did notlook less brilliant, for that). A fancy ball is an occasion which allowsand excuses any extravagance in jewelry; whereas, at an ordinary ball itis considered not in good taste to wear too much. I just mention thiscasually, in case you should want to make a display when you lunch at MissBryant's some Sunday.

Countess Walewski had powdered her hair and wore a Louis XV. amazoncostume, a most unbecoming yellow satin gown with masses of gold buttonssewed on in every direction. This was not very successful.

Marquise de Gallifet, as the Angel Gabriel, with enormous real swan'swings suspended from her shoulders, looked the part to perfection, andmost angelic with her lovely smile, blond hair, and graceful figure.

Princess Metternich was dressed as Night, in dark-blue tulle covered withdiamond stars. Her husband said to me, "Don't you think that Pauline lookswell in her nightgown?"

Countess Castiglione, the famous beauty, was dressed as Salammbô in acostume remarkable for its lack of stuff, the idea taken from the newCarthaginian novel of Gustave Flaubert. The whole dress was of blacksatin, the waist without any sleeves, showing more than an usual amount ofbare arms and shoulders; the train was open to the waist, disclosing thecountess's noble leg as far up as it went incased in black-silk tights.

The young Count de Choiseul, who had blackened his face to represent anEgyptian page, not only carried her train, but held over the head of thedaughter of Hamilcar an umbrella of Robinson Crusoe dimensions. Her goldcrown fell off once while walking about, and Choiseul made every one laughwhen he picked it up and put it on his own black locks. She walked on allunconscious, and wondered why people laughed.

My costume was that of a Spanish dancer. Worth told me that he had put hiswhole mind upon it; it did not feel much heavier for that: a banal yellowsatin skirt, with black lace over it, the traditional red rose in my hair,red boots and a bolero embroidered in steel beads, and small steel ballsdangling all over me. Some com-pliments were paid to me, but unfortunatelynot enough to pay the bill; if compliments would only do that sometimes,how gladly we would receive them! But they are, as it is, a drug in themarket.

The Emperor was in domino—his favorite disguise—which is no disguise atall, for every one recognizes him.

[Illustration: DANIEL FRANÇOIS ESPRIT AUBER]

I met the famous Auber at the Tuileries ball. The Duke de Persigny broughthim and introduced him to me, not because Auber asked to be presented, butbecause I was most anxious to make his acquaintance, and begged the duketo bring him. He is a short, dapper little man, with such a refined andclever face.

Wit and repartee sparkle in his keen eyes. His music is being very muchplayed now—"Fra Diavolo" and "Dieu et la Bayadère," and others of hisoperas. His music is like himself—fine and dainty, and full ofesprit; his name is Daniel François Esprit. M. de Persigny said, "MadameMoulton desires to know you, Monsieur Auber." I said, "I hope you will notthink me indiscreet, but I did want to see you and know the most-talked-about person in Paris." In reply he said: "You have the advantage over me,Madame. I have never heard myself talked about." Then the Duke de Persignysaid something about my voice. Auber turned to me, and said, "May I notalso have the privilege of hearing you?" Of course I was tremendouslypleased, and we fixed a day and hour then and there for his visit.

Prince Jérome, who is a cousin of the Emperor (people call him Plon-Plon),is not popular; in fact, he is just the contrary. But his wife, thePrincess Clothilde, would be exceedingly popular if she gave the Parisiansa chance to see her oftener. She is so shy, so young, and the leastpretentious of princesses, hates society, and never goes out if she canavoid it. Prince Jérome is, of all the Napoleonic family, the one who mostresembles Napoleon I. in appearance, but not in character. There isnothing of the hero about him. Since he had the misfortune to be suddenlyindisposed the night before the battle of Solferino, and did not appear,they call him "craint-plomb." Sé non è vero è ben trovato.

The stories people tell of the Prince are awful; but one is not obliged tobelieve them if one does not want to.

There was such an amusing soirée at the Duke de Morny's in honor ofthe duch*ess's birthday. They gave a play called "Monsieur Choufleurirestera chez lui le…….," which the Duke wrote himself, and for whichOffenbach composed the music inspired by the Duke, who vowed that he"really did make the most of it." But, his conscience pricking him, headded, "At least some!" which I think was nearer the truth.

It was a great success, whether by the Duke de Morny or by Offenbach, andwas the funniest thing I ever saw. Every one was roaring with laughter,and when the delighted audience called for "l'auteur," the Duke came outleading Offenbach, each waving his hand toward the other, as if successbelonged to him alone, and went off bowing their thanks together. Aproposof the Duke de Morny, he said of himself: "I am a very complicated person.Je suis le fils d'une reine, frère d'un Empereur et gendre d'un Empereur,et tous sont illégitimes." It does sound queer! But he really is the sonof Queen Hortense (his father being Count Flahaut); he is in this way anillegitimate brother of Napoleon III., and his wife is the daughter of theEmperor Nicholas of Russia. There you have a complicated case. My youngsister-in-law has just married Count Hatzfeldt, of the German Embassy(second secretary). He is very good-looking without being handsome, andbelongs to one of the most distinguished families in Germany. CountessMercy-Argenteau appeared, comet-like, in Paris, and although she is a verybeautiful woman, full of musical talent, and calls herself une femmepolitique, she is not a success. The gentlemen say she lacks charm. Atany rate, none of the élégantes are jealous of her, which speaks foritself. She is not as beautiful as Madame de Gallifet, nor as éléganteas Countess Pourtales, nor as clever as Princess Metternich.

Madame Musard, a beautiful American, has a friendship (en toutdéshonneur) with a foreign royalty who made her a present of some—what he thought valueless—shares of a petroleum company in America. Theseshares turned into gold in her hands.

The royal gentleman gnashes his false teeth in vain, and has scene afterscene with the royal son, who, green with rage, reproaches him for havingparted with these treasures. But the shares are safely in the clutches ofpapa in New York, far away, and furnishing the wherewithal to provide hisdaughter with the most wonderful horses and equipages in Paris. She paysas much for one horse as her husband gains by his music in a year, and asfor the poor prodigal prince, who is overrun with debts, he would bethankful to have even a widowed papa's mite of her vast wealth. Anotherlady, whose virtue is some one else's reward, has a magnificent and much-talked-of hotel in the Champs Élysées, where there is a staircase worth amillion francs, made of real alabaster. Prosper Mérimée said: "C'est parlà qu'on monte à la vertu."

Her salons are filled every evening with cultured men of the world, andthey say that the most refined tone reigns supreme—that is more than onecan say of every salon in Paris.

I am taking lessons of Delle Sedie. He is a delightful teacher; he is sointelligent and has such beautiful theories, and so many of them, that hetakes up about half the time of my lesson talking them over.

This is one of the things he says: "Take your breath from your boots." Itsounds better said in French: Prenez votre respiration dans vosbottines. I don't think he realizes what he says or what he wants meto do. When I told him that I had sung somewhere unwillingly, having beenmuch teased, he said: "You must not be too amiable. You must not sing whenand what one asks. There is nothing like being begged. You are not a hand-organ, pardieu, that any one can play when they like." And this sort oftalk alternates with my songs until time is up, when off I run or go,feeling that I have learned little but talked much. However, sometimesI do feel compensated; for when, to demonstrate a point, he will sing awhole song, I console myself by thinking that I have been to one of hisconcerts and paid for my ticket.

Yesterday I received the inclosed letter from the Duke de Morny, invitingus to go with him in his loge to see a new play called "Le déluge." It wasnot much of a play; but it was awfully amusing to see. Noah and his threesons and his three daughters-in-law marched into the ark dragging afterthem some wiry, emaciated débris of the Jardin des Plantes, which lookedas if they had not eaten for a week. The amount of whipping and pokingwith sticks which was necessary to get them up the plank was amazing; Ithink they had had either too few or too many rehearsals. But they wereall finally pushed in. Then commenced the rain—a real pouring cats-and-dogs kind of rain, with thunder and lightning and the stage pitch-dark.The whole populace climbed up on the rocks and crawled about, drenched tothe skin, and little by little disappeared. Then, when one saw nothing but"water, water everywhere," the ark suddenly loomed out on top of the rocks(how could they get it up there?), and the whole Noah family stepped outin a pink-and-yellow sunset, and a dear little dove flew up to Noah's handand delivered the olive branch to him. The dove was better trained thanthe animals, and had learned his rôle very well.

On coming out of the theater, we found, instead of the fine weather we hadleft outside, a pouring rain which was a very good imitation of the delugeinside. And none of us had an umbrella!

You see what the Duke de Morny writes: "I am making a collection ofphotographs of the young and elegant ladies of Paris. I think that youought to figure among them, and though it is not an equal exchange, I amgoing to ask you to accept mine and give me yours." And he brought it tome last night.

An invitation for the ball at St. Cloud for the King of Spain, who is nowin Paris to inaugurate the new rail road to Madrid, and another ball atthe Tuileries will keep us busy this week.

PETIT VAL, June 17th. We have been here a week, rejoicing in thelilacs and roses and all the spring delights. The nightingales are moredelightful than ever. There is one charmer in particular, who warbles mostenchantingly in the cedar-tree in front of my window. He has a lady-lovesomewhere, and he must be desperately in love, for he sings his littleheart out on his skylarking tours to attract her attention. I try hard(naïve that I am) to imitate his song, especially the trill and the long,sad note. I wonder if either of them is deceived: whether she thinks thatshe has two lovers (one worse than the other), or, if he thinks he has apoor rival who can't hold a candle to him.

Auber wrote a cadenza for the "Rossignol" of Alabieff, which he thoughtmight be in nightingale style. But how can any one imitate a nightingale?Auber, in one of his letters, asked me: "Chantez-vous toujours des duosavec votre maître de… champs?"

[Illustration: À MADAME LILLIE MOULTON]

PARIS, January, 1864.

The Princess Beauvau is a born actress, and nothing she loves better thanarranging theatricals and acting herself. She rooted up some charity as anexcuse for giving a theatrical performance, and obtained the theater ofthe Conservatoire and the promise of the Empress's presence. She chose twoplays, one of Musset and the other, "l'Esclave," of Molière—and asked meto take part in this last one.

"Oh," I said, "I cannot appear in a French play; I would not dare to." Butthe Princess argued that, as there were only four words to say, shethought I could do it, and in order to entice me to accept, she proposedintroducing a song; and, moreover, said that she would beg Auber tofurnish a few members of the Conservatoire orchestra to accompany me. Thiswas very tempting, and I fell readily into the trap she laid for me.

I consulted Auber about my song, and we decided on Alabieff's "Rossignol,"for which he had written the cadenza. He composed a chorus for a fewamateurs and all the orchestral parts.

I was to be a Greek slave; my dress was of white, flimsy, spangled gauze,with a white-satin embroidered bolero, a turban of tulle, with all sortsof dangly things hanging over my ears. I wore baggy trousers andbabouches. You may notice that I did not copy Power's Greek slave in theway of dress.

I was completely covered with a white tulle veil, and led in by my fellow-slaves, who were also in baggy trousers and babouches. There could be nodoubt that we were slaves, for we were overloaded with chains on arms,ankles, and waist. I found circulation a very difficult matter shufflingabout in babouches, which are the most awkward things to walk in. Onerisks falling forward at every step.

When they got me in front of the orchestra the slaves drew off my veil andthere I stood. The chorus retired, and I began my song. I had had only onerehearsal with the orchestra, the day before; but the hummingaccompaniment to my solo, that the unmusical slaves had to learn, hadtaken a week to teach.

Every one said the scene was very pretty. My song was quite a success; Ihad to sing it over again. Then I sang the waltz of Chopin, to which I hadput words and transposed two tones lower. I saw Delle Sedie in theaudience, with his mouth wide open, trying to breathe for me. It hassixteen bars which must be sung in one breath, and has a compass from D onthe upper line to A on the lower line. Applause and flowers were showeredon me, and I was rather proud of myself. I felt like Patti when I pickedup my bouquets!

Later on in the play I had to say my "four words," which turned out to besix words: On ne peut être plus joli. Though I was frightened out of mywits, I managed not to disgrace myself; but I doubt if any one heard oneof the six words I said. The Empress sent me a little bunch of violets,which I thought was very gracious of her, and I was immensely flattered,for I think she took it from her corsage. I had noticed it there at thebeginning of the evening.

One of the bouquets bore the card of Dr. Evans, the American dentist. Itwas very nice of him to remember me and send me such beautiful flowers.Dr. Evans is so clever and entertaining. Every one likes him, and everydoor as well as every jaw is open to him. At the Tuileries they look onhim not only as a good dentist, but as a good friend; and, as some cleverperson said, "Though reticent to others, their Majesties had to open theirmouths to him."

The other day we had a children's party. Auber came, pretending that hehad been invited as one of the children. When he heard them all chatteringin French, English, and German, he said, "Cela me fait honte, moi qui neparle que le français." He was most delighted to see the children, andseated himself at the piano and played some sweet little old-fashionedpolkas and waltzes, to which the children danced.

I said to them: "Children, remember that to-day you have danced to theplaying of Monsieur Auber, the most celebrated composer in France. Such athing is an event, and you must remember it and tell it to your children."

Miss Adelaide Philips is here singing, but, alas! without the success shedeserves. She appeared at Les Italiens twice; once as Azucena in"Trovatore," and then as the page in "Lucrezia Borgia." If it had not beenfor her clothes, I think that her efforts would have been moreappreciated. The moment she appeared as the page in "Lucrezia" there was ageneral titter in the audience. Her make-up was so extraordinary, Parisiantaste rose up in arms. And as for the Borgias, they would have poisonedher on the spot had they seen her! Her extraordinarily fat legs (whetherpadded or not, I don't know) were covered with black-velvet trousers,ending at the knee and trimmed with lace.

She wore a short-waisted jacket with a short skirt attached and avoluminous lace ruffle, a curly wig too long for a man and too short for awoman, upon which sat jauntily a Faust-like hat with a long, sweepingplume. This was her idea of a medieval Maffeo Orsini. As Azucena, themother of a forty-year-old troubadour, she got herself up as a damsel ofsixteen, with a much too short dress and a red bandana around her head,from which dangled a mass of sequins which she shook coquettishly at theprompter. The audience did not make any demonstration; they remainedindifferent and tolerant, and there was not a breath of applause. The onlycriticism that appeared in the papers was: "Madame Philips, uneAméricaine, a fait son apparence dans 'Trovatore.' Elle joue assez bien,et si sa voix avait l'importance de ses jambes elle aurait eu sans doutedu succès, car elle peut presque chanter." Poor Miss Philips! I felt sosorry for her. I thought of when I had seen her in America, where she hadsuch success in the same rôles. But why did she get herself up so? Thereis nothing like ridicule for killing an artist in France, and any one whoknew the French could have foreseen what her success would be the momentshe came on the stage. She became ill after these two performances andleft Paris.

PARIS, May 7, 1863.

DEAR M.,—Auber procured us tickets for Meyerbeer's funeral, which tookplace to-day; it was a most splendid affair. Auber, who was one of thepall-bearers, looked very small and much agitated. The music of the churchwas magnificent. Auber himself had written an organ voluntary and JulesCohen played it. Auber said, on going to the cemetery: "La prochaine foissera pour mon propre compte."

We went to a dinner at Mr. William Gudin's (he is the celebrated painter)last night. There were the Prince and Princess Metternich, old MonsieurDupin, Duke de Bassano, Monsieur Rouher, Baron Rothschild, and many otherpeople. The gallery was lit up after dinner, and they smoked there (as agreat exception). Smoking is against Madame Gudin's principles, but notagainst his, as the huge table covered with every kind of cigars andcigarettes could bear witness. Collecting cigarettes is a sort of hobby ofGudin's; he gets them from every one. The Emperor of Russia, the Chinese,the Turkish, and Japanese sovereigns, all send him cigarettes, even theEmperor. These last are steeped in a sort of liquid which is good forasthma. Every one who could boast of asthma got one to try. I must saythey smelled rather uninvitingly. The Emperor loves Gudin dearly, andorders picture after picture from him, mostly commemorative of some fineevent of which the Emperor is, of course, the principal figure, anddestined for Versailles later. Gudin has a beautiful hotel and garden nearus in the Rue Beaujon. The garden used to be square; but now it is atriangle, as a new boulevard has taken a part of it. Gudin talked muchabout his debts, as if they were feathers in his cap, and as for his law-suits, they are jewels in his crown!

His famous picture of the Emperor's visit to Venice, now in theLuxembourg, is an enormous canvas, rather à la Turner, with intenseblue sky deepening into a green sunset, pink and purple waves lashing thesides of the fantastic vessel in which the Emperor stands in an opalescentcoloring. Some black slaves are swimming about, their bodies half-way outof the water, holding up their enormous black arms loaded with chains,each link of which would sink an ordinary giant.

Baroness Alphonse Rothschild has one desire, which, in spite of afathomless purse, seemed difficult at first to fulfil. What she wants isto play a sonata with the orchestra of the Conservatoire, rien de moins!She begged me to ask Auber how much it would cost. After due reflection heanswered, twelve hundred francs. She was quite surprised at this modestsum; she had thought it would be so many thousands. Therefore she decidedto convoke the orchestra, and has been studying her sonata with all zealand with a Danish coach. I don't mean a carriage, but a man who can coach,after the English school system.

She asked me to keep her in countenance, and wished me to sing somethingwith the orchestra; but what should I sing? Auber could think of nothingbetter than "Voi che sapete," as the orchestra would have the music forit, and for frivolity he proposed "La Mandolinata," of Paladilhe. He said,"Il faut avoir de tout dans sa poche;" and the dear old master transcribedit all himself, writing it out for the different instruments. I shallalways keep these ten pages of his fine writing as one of my most preciousautographs.

On account of his concours Auber was asked to be present, as wellas the Danish coach, whose occupation was to turn the leaves, and ifnecessary to help in critical moments. No one else was to be in theaudience, not even our husbands. Well! the concert came off. We were fourhours about it! It was a funny experience, when one thinks of it, and onlyBaroness Rothschild could have ever imagined such a thing or carried itthrough. In her enormous ballroom we two amateurs were performing with themost celebrated orchestra in the world—eighty picked musicians, allperfect artists—with no one to hear us. Auber professed politely to bedelighted with all he heard, and clamored for more. The orchestra lookedresignedly bored.

The Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Marquis Drouyn de l'Huys, gave acostume ball which was even finer than the last. Worth, Laferrières, andFélix outdid themselves. The Empress had a magnificent dress—uneancienne dame Bavaroise. She looked superb, actually covered andblazing with jewels.

The Comtesse de Castiglione had imagined a costume as "La Vérité." She wasdressed entirely in white, looking severe and classically beautiful, coldas a winter day. She held in her hand a fan made of white feathers whichhad a mirror in the center. It must be amusing to be a professionalbeauty. When she goes to a ball, which she never does before midnight, shedoes not take the trouble to speak to any one; she walks into the ballroomand just stands in the middle of it to be looked at; people all make acircle around her and glare. A gentleman will go and speak with her, andthey stand like two trees on an island, he doing the talking, and shegazing around her to see what effect she is producing.

The Emperor made a bet that he would make her speak three words, and hewon it, because she answered a question of his by saying, "Pas beaucoup,Sire." She lives at Passy, and calls herself la recluse de Passy; otherscall her la recluse du Passé. I do not admire her beauty half as much asI do the Empress's.

Countess Walewski was dressed like a fiery Vénitienne, all yellow andgold. She looked dazzling and like a thorough Italian, which was notdifficult for her, as she is one.

The duch*esse de Mouchy's costume was a Louis XV. marquise, which did notsuit her at all; neither did the powdered wig nor the black patches on herface become her.

I must tell you about my dress. It was really one of the prettiest there.Worth said that he had put his whole soul on it. I thought that he had puta pretty good round price on his soul. A skirt of gold tissue, round thebottom of which was a band of silver, with all sorts of fantastic figures,such as dragons, owls, and so forth, embroidered in different colors undera skirt of white tulle with silver and gold spangles. The waist was a massof spangles and false stones on a gold stuff; gold-embroidered bands camefrom the waist and fell in points over the skirt. I had wings of spangledsilvery material, with great glass-colored beads sewed all over them. Butthe chef-d'oeuvre was the head-dress, which was a sort of helmet withgauze wings and the jewels of the family (Mrs. M.'s and mine) fastened onit. From the helmet flowed a mane of gold tinsel, which I curled in withmy hair. The effect was very original, for it looked as though my head wason fire; in fact, I looked as if I was all on fire. Before I left home allthe servants came to see me, and their magnifique, and superbe, andétonnant quite turned my head, even with the helmet on.

The Emperor and the Duke de Persigny went about in dominos, and flatteredthemselves that no one recognized them; but every one did. Who could havemistaken the broad back and the slow, undulating gait of the Emperor? Andthough he changed his domino every little while from blue to pink, andfrom white to black, there never was any doubt as to where he was in theroom, and every eye followed him. I was quite agitated when I saw hisunmistakable figure approaching me, and when he began, in a high, squeakyvoice (such as is adopted by masked people) to compliment me on mytoilette, it was all I could do not to make a courtesy. I answered him,feeling very shy about tutoying him, as is the custom when addressing amask.

"Cela te plaît, beau masque (Do I please thee, handsome mask)?" I said.

"Beaucoup, belle dame, mais dis-moi ce que tu es (Very much, beautifullady, but what are you supposed to be?)."

"Je suis une salamandre; je peux traverser le feu et les flammes sans lemoindre danger (I am a salamander; I can go through fire and flame withoutthe slightest danger)."

"Oses-tu traverser le feu de mes yeux (Dost thou dare to brave the fire ofmy eyes)?"

"Je ne vois pas tes yeux à travers ton masque, mon gentilhomme (I cannotsee thy eyes through thy mask, my gallant gentleman)."

"Oserais-tu traverser la flamme de mon coeur (Wouldst thou dare to gothrough the flame of my heart)?"

"Je suis sûre que j'oserais. Si la flamme est si dangereuse, prends gardeque ton beau domino ne brûle pas (I am sure that I would dare. If theflame is so dangerous take care your beautiful domino does not burn)."Such silly talk! But he seemed amused, as he probably thought that I hadno idea to whom I was talking.

Taking a red counter out of his pocket and handing it to me he said, "Willyou take supper with me?"

"Not alone," I answered. "You are too dangerous."

He laughed and said, "I shall not be alone, my pretty lady." Then, givingme another counter, he said: "This is for your husband. If you will be attwo o'clock at that door"—pointing to it—"it will be opened for you."

At two o'clock we presented ourselves at the door of the said salon, whichwas immediately opened on our showing the jetons, and we foundourselves, as I thought we should, in the salon where their Majesties wereto sup. There were already many people assembled: the Metternichs, thePersignys, the Gallifets, the Count and Countess Pourtales, etc.—I shouldsay, twenty-five in all. There was a magnificent display of flowers andfruit on the table. The Emperor came in with the Empress, not looking inthe least Cæsar-like, with his hair matted down on his forehead and hismustaches all unwaxed and drooping; but he soon twisted them up into theirusual stiffness. I noticed that people looked at me persistently, and Ifancied all sorts of awful things, and felt dreadfully embarrassed.

After supper the Empress came up to me and said, "Where can one buy suchlovely curls as you have, chère Madame?" I understood the reason now forthe notice I was attracting. They had thought that the curls were false. Ianswered, hoping it would sound amusing, "Au Magasin du Bon-Dieu."

The Empress smiled and replied; "Nous voudrions toutes acheter dans cemagasin-là; but tell me, are your curls real or false? You won't mindtelling me (and she hesitated a little). Some people have made bets aboutit. How can we know," she said, "unless you tell us?" "My hair is all myown, your Majesty, and, if you wish to make sure, I am perfectly willingthat you should see for yourself." And, removing my helmet, I took out thecomb and let my hair down. Every one crowded around me, and felt andpulled my hair about until I had to beg for mercy. The Emperor, lookingon, cried out, "Bravo, Madame!" and, gathering some flowers off the table,handed them to me, saying: "Votre succès tenait à un cheveu, n'est-cepas?"

Supposing the curls had been false, how I should have felt!

I put on my head-dress again with the flowing tinsel threads, and, someone sending for a brush, I completed this exhibition by showing them how Icurled my hair around my fingers and made this coiffure. I inclose thearticle about this supper which came out in the Figaro (copied intoa New York paper).

The Emperor and Empress not unfrequently take a great liking to persons accidentally presented to them, invite them to their most select parties, make much of them, and sometimes rousing a little jealousy by so doing among the persons belonging to the Court. Of the ladies officially foremost, the reigning favorites are Princess Metternich, extremely clever and piquante, who invents the oddest toilettes, dances the oddest dances, and says the oddest things; the Marquise de Gallifet, whose past life is a romance, not altogether according to the French proverb (fitting school-girl reading), but who is very handsome, brilliant, merry, and audacious; and two others, the handsome and dashing wives of men high in the employment of the Emperor. These ladies spend enormous sums on their toilette, and are perpetually inventing some merry and brilliant nonsense for the amusem*nt of the Empress. Among the persons from the "outside" most in favor just now, in the inner circle of the court, is a very handsome and accomplished American lady, the youthful wife of a millionaire, possessing a magnificent voice, a very amiable temper, and wonderfully splendid hair. After a very small and very merry party in the Empress's private apartments a few nights ago, the Imperial hosts and their guests sat down to an exquisite "little supper," this lady being one of the party. During the supper one of the Empress's ladies began playfully to tease Mrs. —— about her hair, declaring that no human head could grow such a luxuriant mass of lustrous hair, and inviting her to confess to sporting certain skilfully contrived additions to the locks of nature's bestowing. Mrs. —— modestly protested that her hair, such as it was, was really and truly her own; in right of growth, and not of purchase. All present speedily took part in the laughing dispute; some declaring for the opinion of the Lady of Honor, the others for that of Mrs. ——. The Emperor and Empress, greatly amused at the dispute, professed a strong desire to know the facts of the case; and the Emperor, declaring that it was clearly impossible to get at the truth in any other way, invited Mrs. M—— to settle the controversy by letting down her hair, and giving ocular demonstration of its being her own. The lady, whereupon, drew out the comb and the hairpins that held up her hair, and shook its heavy and shining masses all over her shoulders, thus giving conclusive proof of the tenure by which she held it. As Frenchwomen seldom have good heads of hair, it is probable that some little disappointment may have been caused to some of the ladies by this magnificent torrent of hair, displayed by Mrs. M——, but the gentlemen were all in raptures at the really beautiful spectacle, the lady's husband, who worships her, being as proud of her triumph as though his wife's luxuriant locks were his own creation.

March, 1864.

DEAR M.,—Auber, on hearing that the Empress had asked me to sing in thechapel of the Tuileries, offered to compose a Benedictus for me.The orchestra of the Conservatoire was to accompany me, and Jules Cohenwas to play the organ. I had several rehearsals with Auber and one on thepreceding Saturday with the orchestra. The flute and I have a littleramble together which is very pretty. The loft where the organ is, andwhere I stood, was so high up that I could only see the people bystraining my neck over the edge of it, and even then only saw the blackveils of the ladies and the frequent bald heads of the gentlemen. TheEmpress remained on her knees during the whole mass. The Emperor seemedattentive; but stroked and pulled his mustaches all the time.

My Benedictus went off very well. The chapel was very sonorous andI was in good voice. I was a little nervous at first, but after the firstphrase I recovered confidence and did all that was expected of me. TheDuke de Bassano came up to the loft and begged me to come down into thegallery, as their Majesties wished me and Charles to stay for breakfast. Iwas sorry Auber was not invited. We found every one assembled in thegallery outside the chapel. The Empress came straight toward me, thankedme, and said many gracious things, as did the Emperor. There were very,very few people at breakfast—only the household. I sat between theEmperor and the little Prince, who said, "I told mama I knew when yousang, for you said 'Benedictus'; we say benedicteus."

The Princess Metternich receives after midnight every evening. If one isin the theater or at a soirée it is all right, but to sit up tilltwelve o'clock to go to her is very tiresome, though when you are oncethere you do not regret having gone. It is something to see her smokingher enormous cigars. The other night Richard Wagner, who had been to thetheater with the Metternichs, was there. I was glad to see him, though heis so dreadfully severe, solemn, and satirical. He found fault witheverything; he thought the theaters in Paris horribly dirty, malsoignés, bad style, bad actors, orchestra second-rate, singers worse,public ignorant, etc. He smiled once with such a conscious look andscanned people's faces, as if to say, "I, Richard Wagner, have smiled!"But he can very well put on airs, for he is a genius. At Les Italiens,Patti, Mario, Alboni, and Delle Sedie are singing "Rigoletto." They areall splendid. Alboni is immensely fat and round as a barrel—but what avoice! It simply rolls out in billows of melody. The "quartette" wasmagnificent, and was encored. Patti and Mario are at daggers drawn, andhate each other like poison, so their love-making is reduced to a minimum,and they make as little as possible. In their fondest embraces they holdeach other at arm's length and glare into each other's eyes. Mario is sucha splendid actor one would think he could conquer his dislike for her andplay the lover better. The Barbier de Séville is, I think, his bestrole; he acts with so much humor and sings so exquisitely and with suchrefinement. Even in the tipsy scene he is the fine gentleman. Patti singsin the singing lesson Venzano's waltz and "Il Bacio." Her execution iswonderful, faultless, and brilliant.

We went to a soirée given by the Marquise de Boissy, better knownas Byron's Countess Guiccioli, who inspired so many of his beautifulpoems; but when you see her dyed and painted you wonder how the blaséByron could have been all fire and flame for her. fa*gnani, the painter,who did that awful simpering portrait of me, painted her, it beingstipulated that he should make her look ten years younger than she is. Hehad a hard time of it! But now, being old and married to the senator,Marquis de Boissy, she has lost all claim to celebrity, and is reduced togiving forlorn soirées with a meager buffet.

Beaumont is a charming painter, and a friend of Henry's. When he comeshere, as he does very often, he puts us all in a good-humor; even myfather-in-law forgets to grumble at the reduced price of stocks and theincreased rate of exchange. His picture of Circé charming the pigs is verypretty. Helen and I are both in it; he wanted her ear and hair and my eyesand hair. I am not Circé; I only stand in the background admiring a pig.To reward us he painted a fan for each: mine has arrows, doves, myinitials, "Beware," and cherubim all mixed up, making a lovely fan.

Baroness Alphonse Rothschild sent me her box for the opera, and I askedthe Metternichs and Herr Wagner, the composer, who was dining at theEmbassy, to go with me, and they accepted. The Rothschilds' box is one ofthe largest in the opera-house. The Princess Metternich created asensation when we entered—she always does—but Herr Wagner passedunnoticed. He sat behind and pretended to go to sleep. He thoughteverything most mediocre. The opera was "Faust," which I thought wasbeautifully put on the stage, with Madame Miolan Carvalho as Margueriteand Faure as Mephistopheles. They both sang and acted to perfection; butWagner pooh-poohed at them and everything else. Abscheulich andgrässlich alternated in his condemning sentences. Nothing pleasedhim.

He fidgeted about and was very cross during the fifth act, where theballet is danced.

"Why did Gounod insert that idiotic ballet? It is banal and de trop."
(France is the only place where this fifth act is performed.)

"You must blame Goethe for that," retorted the Princess Metternich. "Whydid he make Faust go to the Champs Élysées if he did not want him to seeany dancing?"

"Why, indeed?" grumbled Wagner. "Goethe had much better have letMarguerite die on her straw and not of send her up in clouds of glory likethe Madonna to heaven, and with ballet music."

"Well," said the Princess, "I don't see any difference between a ballet inheaven and a ballet in Venusberg."

The Emperor has made a fine coup de popularité. He refused to havethe new boulevard named after his mother, and cleverly proposed it to becalled Richard Lenoir, the man who led his fellow-workmen in theRevolution.

We were invited to one of Rossini's Saturday evenings. There was a queermixture of people: some diplomats, and some well-known members of society,but I fancy that the guests were mostly artists; at least they looked so.The most celebrated ones were pointed out to me. There were Saint-Saëns,Prince Poniatowski, Gounod, and others. I wondered that Richard Wagner wasnot there; but I suppose that there is little sympathy between these twogeniuses.

Prince Metternich told me that Rossini had once said to him that he wishedpeople would not always feel obliged to sing his music when they sang athis house. "J'acclamerais avec délice 'Au clair de la lune,' même avecvariations," he said, in his comical way. Rossini's wife's name is Olga.Some one called her Vulgar, she is so ordinary and pretentious, and wouldmake Rossini's home and salon very commonplace if it were not that themaster glorified all by his presence. I saw Rossini's writing-table, whichis a thing never to be forgotten: brushes, combs, toothpicks, nails, andall sorts of rubbish lying about pell-mell; and promiscuous among them wasthe tube that Rossini uses for his famous macaroni à la Rossini. PrinceMetternich said that no power on earth would induce him to touch any foodà la Rossini, especially the macaroni, which he said was stuffed withhash and all sorts of remnants of last week's food and piled up on a dishlike a log cabin. "J'ai des frissons chaque fois que j'y pense."

Not long ago Baron James Rothschild sent Rossini some splendid grapes fromhis hothouse. Rossini, in thanking him, wrote, "Bien que vos raisinssoient superbes, je n'aime pas mon vin en pillules." This Baron Rothschildread as an invitation to send him some of his celebrated Château-Lafitte,which he proceeded to do, for "the joke of it," he remarked. "It is soamusing to tell the story afterward." Rossini does not dye his hair, butwears the most wiggy of wigs. When he goes to mass he puts one wig on topof the other, and if it is very cold he puts still a third one on, curlierthan the others, for the sake of warmth. No coquetry about him!

Rossini asked me to sing.

"I will, with pleasure," I said. "I only wish that I knew what to sing, Iknow that you do not like people to sing your music when they come to yourhouse."

"Not every one," he said, beaming with a broad smile; "but I have heardthat you have an unusually beautiful voice, and I am curious to hear you."

"But," I mischievously answered, "I do not know 'Au clair de la lune,'even with variations."

"Oh! the naughty Prince," said he, shaking his finger across to wherePrince Metternich was standing. "He told you that. But tell me, what doyou sing of mine?"

Auber had told me to take "Sombre Forêt," of "William Tell," in case Ishould be asked. Therefore I said that I had brought "Sombre Forêt," andif he liked I would sing that.

"Bene! bene!" he replied. "I will accompany you."

I was dreadfully nervous to sing before him, but when I had finished hestretched out both hands to me and said:

"Merci! C'est comme cela que ça doit être chanté. Votre voix estdélicieuse, le timbre que j'aime—mezzo-soprano, avec ces notes hautes etclaires."

Auber came up flushed with delight at my success, and said to Rossini,
"Did I say too much about Madame Moulton's voice?"

"Not enough," replied Rossini. "She has more than voice; she hasintelligence and le feu sacré—un rossignol doublé de velours; and morethan all, she sings my music as I have written it. Every one likes to adda little of their own. I said to Patti the other day: 'a chère_ Adelina,when you sing the "Barbiere" do not make it too 'strakoschonée'[Strakosch is Patti's brother-in-law, and makes all her cadenzas for her].If I had wanted to make all those little things, don't you think that Icould have made them myself?'"

Auber asked me, "Do you know what Rossini said about me?"

"No," I answered, "I know what he ought to have said. What did he say?"

"He said," Auber replied, with a merry twinkle in his eye, 'Auber est ungrand musicien qui fait de la petite musique.'"

"That was pure envy," I said. "I should like to know what you said about
Rossini."

"Well, I said," and he hesitated before continuing, "I said that Rossiniest un très grand musicien et fait de la belle musique, mais uneexécrable cuisine."

Rossini adores Alboni, but deplores her want of confidence in herself. Shehas such stage frights that she swears that she will have to leave thestage. He has written "La Messe solennelle" for her voice. The "Agnus Dei"is perfectly wonderful. She sang it after I had sung. If she had beenfirst, I never should have had the courage to open my mouth.

Auber asked him how he had liked the representation of "Tannhäuser"?Rossini answered, with a satirical smile, "It is a music one must hearseveral times. I am not going again."

Rossini said that neither Weber nor Wagner understood the voice. Wagner'sinterminable dissonances were insupportable. That these two composersimagine that to sing is simply to dégoiser the note; but the art ofsinging, or technic was considered by them to be secondary andinsignificant Phrasing or any sort of finesse was superfluous. Theorchestra must be all powerful. "If Wagner gets the upper hand," Rossinicontinued, "as he is sure to do, for people will run after the New, thenwhat will become of the art of singing? No more bel canto, no morephrasing, no more enunciation! What is the use, when all that is requiredof you is to beugler (bellow)? Any cornet à piston is just as good asthe best tenor, and better, for it can be heard over the orchestra. Butthe instrumentation is magnificent. There Wagner excels. The overture ofTannhäuser is a chef-d'oeuvre; there is a swing, a sway, and a shushthat carries you off your feet…. I wish I had composed it myself."

Auber is a true Parisian, adores his Paris, and never leaves it evenduring the summer, when Paris is insufferable. He comes very often to seeme, and we play duets. He loves Bach, and we play Mendelssohn overturesand Haydn symphonies when we are through with Bach. Auber always takes thesecond piano, or, if a four-handed piece, he takes the base. Sometimes hesays, "Je vous donne rendez-vous en bas de la page. Si vous y arrivez lapremière, attendez-moi, et je ferai de même." He is so clever and full ofrepartees.

I do not think I ever talked with a wittier person than he is. I alwayswish I could remember what he says; but, alas! when he goes my memory goeswith him.

Though so old (he must be over eighty) he is always beautifully dressed inthe latest fashion, trim and neat. He says that he has never heard hisoperas seated in the audience; it makes him too nervous. He has his seatevery night in the parquet of all the theaters in Paris. He only has tochoose where to go. He once said: "Je suis trop vieux; on ne devrait pasvieillir, mais que faire? c'est le seul moyen de devenir vieux. Unvieillard m'a toujours paru un personnage terrible et inutile, mais mevoici un vieillard sans le savoir et je n'en suis pas triste." He is notdeaf, nor does he wear glasses except to "déchiffrer ma propre musique"—as he says. Another time he said: "I am glad that I never was married. Mywife would now have been an old, wrinkled woman. I never would have hadthe courage to come home of an evening. Aussi j'aurais voulu avoir unefille (une fille comme vous), et elle m'aurait certainement donné ungarçon."

I quote the following from a Paris newspaper:

Parmi les dames qu'on admire le plus, il convient de citer Mme Moulton.—C'est la première fois que nous revoyons Mme Moulton au théâtre depuis sonretour d'Amérique.—Serait-elle revenue exprès pour la pièce d'Auber.—Ondit, en effet, que dans tous ses opéras, Auber offre le principal rôle àMme Moulton, qui possède une voix ravissante.

The Emperor once said to Auber: "Dites-moi, quel âge avez-vous? On dit quevous avez quatre-vingt ans." "Sire," answered Auber, "je n'ai pas quatre-vingt ans, mais quatre fois vingt ans." Is he not clever? Some one wastalking about the Marquise B—— and her friendship (sic) for Monsieurde M——, and said, "On dit que ce n'est que l'amitié." "Oh," said Auber,"je connais ces amitiés-là; on dit que l'amour et l'amitié sont frère etsoeur. Cela se peut, mais ils ne sont pas du même lit."

And another time (I am remembering all his witty sayings while I can),Prince Metternich, who smokes one cigarette after the other, said toAuber, "Vous me permettez?" wanting to put his ashes in Auber's tea-saucer. Auber said, "Certainement, mais j'aime mieux monter quedescendre." In other words, J'aime mieux mon thé que des cendres.How can people be so quick-witted?

Auber has given me all his operas, and I have gone through them all withhim for his music. I sing the laughing song in "Manon Lescaut" and thebolero in "Diamants de la Couronne." These two are my favorite songs andare very difficult. In the laughing song I either laugh too much or toolittle. To start laughing in cold blood is as difficult as to stoplaughing when once started. The bolero is only a continuous display ofmusical fireworks.

NEW YORK, May, 1864.

When we arrived in New York (we went to visit my sister and my mother) wewere overwhelmed with invitations of all kinds.

I made a most (to me) interesting acquaintance at this soirée, a Mrs.Henry Fields, who I found out was the famous and much-talked-about"Lucie," the governess in the trial of the Duc de Praslin. Every one wasconvinced of her innocence (she pleaded her own case, refusing the aid ofa lawyer). Nevertheless, she was the cause of the death of the duch*ess, asthe Duke killed his wife because she refused to give "Lucie" a letter ofrecommendation, and he became so enraged at her refusal that he firsttried to strangle her, and then shot her. I had heard so much about thismurder (it was along ago), and knew all the details, and, what was more, Iknew all the children of the unhappy woman whose only crime was to loveher husband too much, and to resent "Lucie's" taking away the love of herchildren from her! Warning to young women: Don't love your husbands toomuch, or don't engage a too attractive governess.

PHILADELPHIA, July, 1864.

DEAR AUNTY,—We came from New York a few days ago, and are staying withmama's friend, Mrs. M——, who is a very (what shall I say?) fascinatingbut a very peculiar person. She is a curious mixture of a poetess and asociety woman, very susceptible, and of such a sensitive nature that sheseems always to be in the hottest of hot water, and at war with all herneighbors; but she routs all her enemies and manages everything with ahigh hand.

Her daughter is just engaged to a Swedish naval officer. To celebrate theengagement they gave a big dinner, and, as the Sanitary Fair is going onjust now, President Lincoln is here, and Mrs. M—— had the courage toinvite him, and he had the courage to accept. It is the first time that Ihave ever seen an American President, and I was most anxious to see him,particularly as he has, for the last years, been such a hero in my eyes.He might take the prize for ugliness anywhere; his face looked as if itwas cut out of wood, and roughly cut at that, with deep furrows in hischeeks and a huge mouth; but he seemed so good and kind, and his eyessparkled with so much humor and fun, that he became quite fascinating,especially when he smiled. I confess I lost my heart to him…. Thedinner, I mean the food part of it, was a failure. It came from Baltimore,and everything was cold; the pâté de foie gras never appeared at all!When Mrs. M—— mentioned the fact to Mr. Lincoln, pointing to the menu,he said "the pâté" (he pronounced it patty) has probably walked off byitself. Every one laughed, because he said it in such a comical, slow way.

After the gentlemen had smoked (I thought they were a long time at it) wewere requested to go into the gallery, where all the gas-lights wereturned up to the fullest and chairs placed in rows, and Professor Winterbegan to read a lecture on the brain—of all subjects! Who but Mrs. M——would ever have arranged such an entertainment?

Professor Winter told us where our 50,000 ideas were laid up in our brains(I am sure that I have not 50,000 in mine). One might have deducted49,999, and still, with that little one left, I was not able to understandthe half of what he said.

Another wonderful thing he told us was, that there are five thousandmillion cells in our brain, and that it takes about ten thousand cells tofurnish a well-lodged perception. How in the world can he know that? Ithink he must have examined his own ten thousand cells to have discoveredall this exuberance of material. The President looked bored, and I am sureeverybody else wished Professor Winter and his theories (because theycan't be facts) in the Red Sea…. After this séance manquée I wasasked to sing. Poor Mr. Lincoln! who I understood could not endure music.I pitied him.

"None of your foreign fireworks," said Mr. Trott, in his graceful manner,as I passed him on my way to the piano. I answered, "Shall I sing 'ThreeLittle Kittens'? I think that is the least fireworky of my répertoire."But I concluded that a simple little rocket like "Robin Adair" would killnobody; therefor I sang that, and it had a success.

When the gaunt President shook my hand to thank me, he held it in a gripof iron, and when, to accentuate the compliment, meaning to give a littleextra pressure, he put his left hand over his right, I felt as if my handwas shut in a waffle-iron and I should never straighten it out again.

"Music is not much in my line," said the President; "but when you sing youwarble yourself into a man's heart. I'd like to hear you sing some more."

What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovelysong, "Mary Was a Lassie," which you like so much, so I sang that.

Mr. Lincoln said, "I think I might become a musician if I heard you often;but so far I only know two tunes."

"'Hail, Columbia'?" I asked. "You know that, I am sure!"

"Oh yes, I know that, for I have to stand up and take off my hat."

"And the other one?"

"The other one! Oh, the other one is the other when I don't stand up!" Iam sorry not to have seen Mr. Lincoln again. There was something about himthat was perfectly fascinating, but I think I have said this before.

NIAGARA, August, 1864.

DEAR AUNTY,—My last letter, written from Philadelphia, told you of myhaving made Mr. Lincoln's acquaintance. A few days after we left forNiagara, taking Rochester on our way. I had not seen Rochester since I waseleven years old, and mama and I both wanted to go there again.

We slept in Rochester that night. The next morning a deputation headed bythe director of the penitentiary, flanked by a committee of benevolentladies, called upon us to beg me to sing for the penitents at thepenitentiary the next day, it being Sunday. They all said, in chorus, thatit would be a great and noble act.

I did not (and I do not now) see why pickpockets and burglars should beentertained, and I could not grasp the greatness of the act, unless it wasin the asking. However, mama urged me (she can never bear me to say no),and I accepted.

At the appointed time the director called for us in a landau, and we droveout to the penitentiary. As we entered the double courtyard, and drovethrough the much belocked gates, I felt very depressed, and not at alllike bursting forth in song. Mama and I were led up, like lambs to theslaughter, on to a platform, passing the guilty ones seated in the pews,the men on one side, the women on the other, of the aisles, all dressed instripes of some sort; they looked sleepy and stupid. They had just satthrough the usual Sunday exhortation.

The ladies of the committee ranged themselves so as to make a backgroundof solemn benevolence on the platform, in the middle of which stood aprimeval melodion with two octaves and four stops. One stop would havebeen enough for me, and I needed it later, as you will see.

Here I was! What should I sing? I was utterly at a loss. Why had I notthought this out before coming?

French love-songs; out of the question.

Italian prayers and German lullabies were plentiful in the répertoire,but seemed sadly out of place for this occasion.

I thought of Lucrezia Borgia's "Brindisi"; but that instantly went out ofmy mind. A drinking song urging people to drink seemed absurdlyinappropriate, as probably most of my audience had done their misdeedsunder the influence of drink.

I knew the words of "Home, Sweet Home," and decided on that. Nothing couldhave been worse. I attacked the squeaky melodion, pushed down a pedal,pulled out the "vox humana" stop—the most harmless one of the melodion,but which gave out a supernaturally hoarse sound—I struck the chord, andstanding up I began. These poor, homeless creatures must have thought myone purpose was to harass them to the last limit, and I only realized whatI was singing about when I saw them with bowed heads and faces hidden intheir hands; some even sobbing.

The director, perceiving the doleful effect I had produced, suggested,"Perhaps something in a lighter vein." I tried to think of "something in alighter vein," and inquired, "How would 'Swanee River' be?"

"First-rate," said the kind director; "just the thing—good" emphasizingthe word good by slapping his hands together. Thus encouraged, I startedoff again in the melancholy wake of the melodion. Alas! this fared nobetter than "Home, Sweet Home." When I sang "Oh; darkies! how my heartgrows weary!" the word weary had a disastrous effect, and there was aregular breakdown (I don't mean in the darky sense of the word, thepenitents did not get up and perform a breakdown—I wish they had!); butthere was a regular collapse of penitents. I thought that they would haveto be carried out on stretchers.

The poor warden, now at his wits' end, but wishing to finish thislugubrious performance with a flourish, proposed (unhappy thought) that Ishould address a few words to the now miserable, broken-hearted crowd. Iwill give you a thousand guesses, dear aunty, and still you will neverguess the idiotic words that issued from your niece's lips. I said,looking at them with a triumphant smile (I have no doubt that, at thatmoment, I thought I was in my own drawing-room, bidding guests goodnight)—I said (I really hate to write it): "I hope the next time I cometo Rochester I shall meet you all here again."

This was the first speech I ever made in public—I confess that it was nota success.

PARIS, 1865.

The Princess Mathilde receives every Sunday evening. Her salons are alwayscrowded, and are what one might call cosmopolitan. In fact, it is the onlysalon in Paris where one can meet all nationalities. There are diplomats,royalists, imperialists, strangers of importance passing through Paris,and especially all the celebrated artists.

She has great taste, and has arranged her palace most charmingly. She hasconverted a small portion of the park behind it into a winter garden,which is filled with beautiful palms and flowering plants. In thisattractive place she holds her receptions, and I sang there the otherevening.

Rossini was, as a great exception, present. I fancy that he and his wifehad dined with the Princess; therefore, when the Princess asked him toaccompany me, saying that she desired so much to hear me sing, he couldnot well refuse to be amiable, and sat down to the piano with a goodenough grace. I sang "Bel Raggio," from "Semiramide," as I knew it byheart (I had sung it often enough with Garcia). Rossini was kind enoughnot to condemn the cadenzas with which Garcia had interlarded it. I wasafraid he would not like them, remembering what he had said to Patti abouthers.

I was amused at his gala dress for royalty: a much-too-big redingote, awhite tie tied a good deal to one side, and only one wig.

He says that he is seventy-three years old. I must say that this isdifficult to believe, for he does not look it by ten years. He neveraccepts any invitations. I know I have never seen him anywhere outside hisown house, and it was a great surprise to see him now. We once ventured toinvite him and his wife to dinner one evening, when the Prince andPrincess Metternich were dining with us; and we got this answer: "Merci,de votre invitation pour ma femme et moi. Nous regrettons de ne pouvoirl'accepter. Ma femme ne sort que pour aller à la messe, et moi je ne sorsjamais de mes habitudes." We felt snubbed, as no doubt we deserved to be.

Gounod played most enchantingly some selections from "Roméo et Juliette,"the opera he has just composed. I hear that he wants Christine Nilsson tosing it. The music seems to me even more beautiful than "Faust." Rossinitalked a long time with Gounod, and Auber told me that Rossini said,patting Gounod on the back, "Vous êtes le chevalier Bayard de la musique."

Gounod answered, "Sans peur, non!"

Rossini said, "Dans tous les cas, sans reproche et sans égal."

Gounod is, I think, the gentlest, the most modest, and the kindest-heartedman in the world. His music is like him, gentle and graceful. PrincessMathilde asked me to sing again; but, as I had not brought any music,Auber offered to accompany me in the "Song of the Djins," from his newopera, which I had so often sung with him. It was not the song I shouldhave selected; but, as Auber desired it, I was glad to gratify him, andwas delighted when I saw Rossini compliment Auber, who (like the tenorbefore the drop-curtain, who waves his hand toward the soprano as if allthe merit of the performance was due to her) waved his hand toward me,which suggested to Rossini to make me a reflected compliment.

This was a great occasion, seeing and hearing Rossini, Gounod, and Auberat the same time. I shall never forget that evening. I wonder that I hadthe courage to sing before them. Among the guests was an Indian Nabobdressed in all his orientals, who in himself would have been sufficientattraction for a whole evening, had he not been totally eclipsed by thethree great artists. The Nabob probably expected more homage than hereceived; but people hardly looked at him.

I was presented to him, and he seemed glad to speak English, which was notof the best, but far better than his French. He told me a great deal abouthis journey, the attractions of Paris, and about his country and family.

I asked him, by way of saying something (I was not particularly interestedin him or his family), how many children he had. He answered, "Quite afew, milady."

"What does your Highness call a few?" I asked.

"Well, I think about forty," he replied, nonchalantly.

"That would be considered quite a large family here," I said.

The Nabob, of course, did not appreciate the profundity of this remark.

A few days after, the Princess Mathilde sent me a lovely fan which she hadpainted herself, and Mr. Moulton is going to have it mounted. I am veryhappy to have it as a souvenir of a memorable evening, besides being anexquisite specimen of the Princess's talent as an artist. The Princess iswhat one might call miscellaneous. She has a Corsican father, a Germanmother, and a Russian husband, and as "cavaliere servente" (as they say inItaly), a Dutchman. She was born in Austria, brought up in Italy, andlives in France. She said once to Baron Haussmann, "If you go on makingboulevards like that, you will shut me up like a vestal."

"I will never make another, your Highness," he answered.

Every one is very much excited about a young Swedish girl called ChristineNilsson, who has walked right into the star-light, for she really is astar of the first magnitude. She has studied with Wachtel only one year,and behold her now singing at the Théâtre Lyrique to crowded audiences inthe "Flûte Enchantée." Her voice has a wonderful charm; she sings withoutthe slightest effort, and naturally as a bird. She has some phenomenalhigh notes, which are clear as bells. She makes that usually tediousgrand aria, which every singer makes a mess of, quite lovely andmusical, hovering as she does in the regions above the upper line like abutterfly and trilling like a canary-bird. A Chinese juggler does not playwith his glass balls more dexterously than she plays with all the effectsand tricks of the voice. What luck for her to have blossomed like thatinto a full-fledged prima-donna with so little effort. I have got to knowher quite well, as Miss Haggerty, who was at some school with her inParis, invites her often to lunch and asks me to meet her.

Nilsson is tall, graceful, slight, and very attractive, without beingactually handsome. She acts well and naturally, and with intelligence,without exerting herself; she has the happy faculty of understanding andseizing things au vol, instead of studying them. She has a regal futurebefore her. A second Jenny Lind! Their careers are rather similar. JennyLind was a singer in cafés, and Nilsson played the violin in cafés inStockholm. She is clever, too! She has surrounded herself by a wall ofpropriety, in the shape of an English dame de compagnie, and never movesunless followed by her. This lady (Miss Richardson) is correctness andprimness personified, and so comme il faut that it is actuallyoppressive to be in the same room with her. Nilsson herself is full of funand jokes, but at the same time dignified and serious.

Christine Nilsson gave Mrs. Haggerty a box at the Théâtre Lyrique, whereshe is now playing "Traviata" (I think it was the director's box), and Iwas invited to go with her and Clem. The box was behind the curtain andvery small and very dark. But it was intensely amusing to see how thingswere done, and how prosaic and matter-of-fact everything was. If ever Ithanked my stars that I was not a star myself it was then.

Everything looked so tawdry and claptrap: the dirty boards, the grosslypainted scenery, the dingy workmen shuffling about grumbling and gruff,ordered and scolded by a vulgar superior. Of course the stars do not seeall these things, because they only appear when the heavens are ready forthem to shine in.

The overture, so it sounded to us, was a clash of drums, trumpets, andtrombones all jumbled together. After the three knocks of the director,which started up the dust of ages into our faces until we were almostsuffocated, the curtain rose slowly with great noise and rumbling.

The audience looked formidable as we saw it through the mist of cloudygas-light, a sea of faces, of color and vagueness. The incongruity ofcostumes was a thing to weep over. If they had tried they could not havemade it worse. The lady guests, walking and chatting, in a soi-disantelegant salon, were dressed, some in Louis XV. splendor, some in dogesses'brocades, some in modern finery, with bows and ribbons and things loopedup any way. Nilsson was dressed in quite modern style—flounces, laces,and fringes, and so forth, while Alfredo had donned a black velvet coat àla something, with a huge jabot which fell over a frilled shirt-front. Hewore short velvet trousers, and black-silk stockings covered his thin legswithout the least attempt at padding.

The "padre" was in a shooting-jacket, evidently just in from a riding-tour. He held a riding-stick, and wore riding-gantlets which he flourishedabout with such wide gesticulations that I thought he was going to hitNilsson in the face.

We could not hear the singing so well from where we sat; but the orchestrawas overpowering, and the applause deafening, like peals of thunder.

I laughed when the gang of workmen rushed on to the stage as soon as thecurtain came down, and began sweeping and taking down one set of furnitureand putting on another; especially in the last act, when Violetta's bedcame on and the men threw the pillows from one to the other, as if theywere playing ball. They hung up a crucifix, which I thought wasunnecessary, and brought in a candlestick. I wondered if they were goingto put a warming-pan in the bed. A mat was laid down with great precision.Then Nilsson came in, dressed in a flounced petticoat trimmed with lace, a"matinée," and black slippers, and got into the bed.

After the performance was over the curtain was raised and the artists cameforward to bow; the stage was covered with flowers and wreaths. AndNilsson, in picking up her floral tributes, was wreathed in smiles; butthey faded like mist before the sun the minute the curtain was lowered,and she looked tired and worn out. Her maid was there, waiting with ashawl to wrap around the shoulders of the hot prima-donna, and the primMiss Richardson ready to escort her to her room, while the army of shirt-sleeved men invaded the stage like bees, with brooms which, thoughanything but new, I hope swept clean. Then everything was dark and dismal,lit only by one or two candles and a solitary lantern. All that was sobrilliant a moment before was now only a confused mass of disillusions.

Nilsson and her duenna drove to Mrs. H——'s and had supper with us. Onewould never have dreamt that she had been dying of consumption an hourbefore, to see her stow away ham, salad, and pudding in great quantities.Then she embraced us all and drove off in her coupé. The star was going toset. I went home, glad that my life lay in other paths.

PARIS, March, 1865.

DEAR M.,—Do not be anxious about me. When Mrs. M—— wrote, I was reallyin danger of a fluxion de poitrine. I am sorry she worried youunnecessarily. I am much better; in fact, I am far on the road torecovery. If every one had such a nice time when they are ill as I hadthey would not be in a hurry to get well. When I was convalescent enoughto come down-stairs, and the doctor had said his last word (thetraditional "you must be careful"), I had my chaise-longue moved downinto Henry's studio, and Monsieur Gudin, who is the kindest man in theworld, offered to come there and paint a picture in order to amuse anddivert me.

Bierstadt, the American painter, who is in Paris, also proposed to come.Then those two artists ordered canvases of the same size, and Beaumont,not to be outdone, ordered a larger canvas, and Henry announced hisintention of finishing an already commenced landscape.

Behold, then, your invalid, surrounded by these celebrated artists,reclining on a chaise-longue, a table with tisanes and remedies nearby, and the four painters painting. Gudin is painting a seascape;Bierstadt, a picture of California; Beaumont, of course, his gracefulladies and cherubs. It amused me to see how differently they painted.Gudin spread his paints on a very large table covered with glass, and useda great many brushes; Bierstadt used a huge palette, and painted ratherfinically, whereas Beaumont had quite a small palette and used fewbrushes. I was very sorry when my convalescence came to an end and thepictures were finished; but I had the delight of receiving the fourpictures, which the four artists begged me to accept as a souvenir of the"pleasant days in the studio."

Another pleasant thing happened during "the pleasant days in the studio,"which was the gift of a beautiful gold medal which the Emperor sent me asa souvenir of the day I sang the Benedictus in the chapel of theTuileries. It is a little larger than a five-franc piece, and has on oneside the head of the Emperor encircled by "Chapelle des Tuileries," and onthe other side "Madame Moulton" and the date.

We are all dreadfully sad about the Duke de Morny's death. He was verymuch appreciated, and a favorite with every one. They say that the duch*esscut off all her hair and put it into his coffin. I never heard before thatshe was such a loving wife. I only hope that she will not need her braidsto keep on her next wedding-wreath.

We have just heard of the assassination of that good, kind President
Lincoln. How dreadful!

I have a new teacher called Delsarte, the most unique specimen I have evermet. My first impression was that I was in the presence of aconcierge in a second-class establishment; but I soon saw that hewas the great master I had heard described so often. He is not a realsinging teacher, for he does not think the voice worth speaking of; he hasa theory that one can express more by the features and all the tricks heteaches, and especially by the manner of enunciation, than by the voice.We were (Aunty and I) first led into the salon, and then into the music-room, so called because the piano is there and the stand for music, but noother incumbrances as furniture.

On the walls were hung some awful diagrams to illustrate the master'smethod of teaching. These diagrams are crayon-drawings of life-sized facesdepicting every emotion that the human face is capable of expressing, suchas love, sorrow, murder, terror, joy, surprise, etc.

It is Delsarte's way, when he wants you to express one of these emotionsin your voice, to point with a soiled forefinger to the picture inquestion which he expects you to imitate. The result lends expression toyour voice.

The piano is of a pre-Raphaelite construction, and stands in the middle ofthe room like an island in a lake, with a footstool placed over the pedals(he considers the pedal as useless). The lid of the piano was absent, and,to judge from the inside, I should say that the piano was the receptaclefor everything that belonged to the Delsarte homestead. There wereinkstands, pens, pencils, knives, wire, matches, toothpicks, half-smokedcigars, even remnants of his luncheon, which seemed to have been blackbread and cheese, and dust galore. Delsarte had on a pair of much-wornembroidered slippers, a velvet calotte, the tassels of which swayedwith each of his emotions, and a dilapidated robe de chambre whichopened at every movement, disclosing his soiled plaid foulard doing dutyfor a collar.

On my telling him that I desired to take some lessons of him, he asked meto sing something for him. Seeing the music of Duprato's "Il était nuitdéjà," I proposed singing that, and he sat down at the pedal-less piano toaccompany me. When I arrived at the phrase, "Un souffle d'air légerapportait jusqu'à nous l'odeur d'un oranger," he interrupted me. "Repeatthat!" he cried. "Il faut qu'on sente le souffle d'air et l'odeur del'oranger." I said to myself, "… no one could 'sentir un oranger' inthis room; one could only smell Delsarte's bad tobacco."

He begged me to sing something else.

"Will you accompany Gounod's 'Medje' for me?" I asked him.

"No," he replied. "I will listen; you must accompany yourself. There arecertain songs that cannot be accompanied by any one but the singer. Thisis one of them! You feel yourself, don't you, that it is absolutelynecessary for you to clutch something when singing this? A weak chord or atoo powerful one struck in a wrong place would spoil entirely the effect,and even the best accompanist cannot foresee when that effect is going tobe produced." I think this is so clever! "'Voi che sapete' can beaccompanied by any school girl," he continued. "It is plain sailing; butin 'Medje' the piano must be part of the singer and breathe with him." Isat down at the piano and sang. When I came to "Prends cette lame etplonges la dans mon coeur," he stopped me short, and pointing to ahorrible picture on the wall indicating bloody murder and terror (No. 6),he cried, "Voilà l'expression qu'il faut avoir." I sang the phrase overagain, trying to imagine what Medje's lover must have felt; but I couldnot satisfy Delsarte. He said my voice ought to tremble; and, in fact, Iought to sing false when I say, "Ton image encore vivante dans mon coeurqui ne bat plus." "No one," he said, "in such a moment of emotion couldkeep on the right note." I tried again, in vain! If I had had a dagger inmy hand and a brigand before me, I might perhaps have been moresuccessful. However, he let it pass; but to show that it could be done hesang it for me, and actually did sing it false. Curiously enough, itsounded quite right, tremolo and all. There is no doubt that he is agreat artist. One can see that Faure and Coquelin (the actor) haveboth profited by his unique teaching. He assured me that there is no artlike that of making people believe what you want them to. For instance, hepretends that he can sing "Il pleut, il pleut, bergère," and make you hearthe patter of the bergère's heels on the wet sod, or wherever shewas trying to rentrer ses blancs moutons. He sang it with the fullestconviction, and asked me what I thought of it. I shut my eyes and tried toconjure up the bergère and her heels. My head began to whirl with allthis talk, and, on taking leave of my new master, I promised him that Iwould try to sing false until the next lesson. Another thing he said was:"Never try to accompany yourself when the accompaniment is difficult.There is nothing so painful as to see a singer struggling with tremolosand arpeggios." How right he is!

He has one theory about the trembling of the chin. It certainly is veryeffective. When in "Medje" I say, "Tu n'as pas vu mes larmes, tout la nuitj'ai pleuré," Delsarte says, "Make your chin tremble; just try it once,"pointing to a diagram, "and every one will be overcome." I have tried itand have seen the effect. But I am letting you into all Delsarte's mostinnermost secrets.

PARIS, July, 1865.

DEAR M.,—You must forgive me if I have not written lately; but we havebeen on a visit to the Duke and duch*ess de Persigny for the past week. Idid not have time to do more than dress for driving and drive, dress forafternoon tea, dress for dinner, and dine.

The estates of Chamarande are beautiful, the château itself is verymagnificent and arranged with the duch*ess's taste, which is perfect thoughultra-English.

The château has a moat around it, over which is a stone bridge which leadsto the entrance on the side opposite the broad terraces bordered by cuttrees, as in Versailles. The park is very large, filled with beautiful oldtrees, and most artistically laid out.

The Duke de Persigny is perfectly delightful, genial, kind, and certainlythe cleverest man of the day, with a temper which is temper-proof. I neversaw him out of it, and, well as I know him, I have never seen him ruffledin any way, and sometimes there were occasions, goodness knows!

The duch*ess is still handsome and attractive; her pronounced originalitylends her a peculiar charm. She has many admiring friends who are true toher, and I must say that when she is a friend she is a true one, and neverfails you. Her originality frequently leads her beyond conventionality;for instance, the other day she took it into her head to dine out ofdoors. If she wanted to picnic al fresco, why did she not choose somepretty place in the park or in the woods? But no, she had the usualelaborate dinner served directly outside the château, and on the gravelwalk. The servants, powdered and in short breeches as usual, served us intheir customary solemnity; but they must have wondered why we preferred tosit on the gravel, with a draught of cold air on our backs, when we mighthave been comfortably seated in a big and airy room with a carpet underour feet. However, such was the wish of the châtelaine, and no one daredsay a word, not even the Duke, though he protested meekly.

Later on the Duke had his revenge, for in the midst of our breezy repastthere came a downpour of rain, accompanied by lightning and peals ofthunder, which necessitated a hasty retreat.

The duch*ess, who is very timid in thunder-storms, was the first to rushinto the house, the guests following pell-mell, and our dinner wasfinished indoors.

After our return to Petit Val we had the visit of Auber's protégé, a youngman called Massenet. One day, in Paris, two months ago, Auber said to me:

"I am very much interested in a former pupil of the Conservatoire who tookthe Grand-Prix de Rome, and has just come back from his four years'musical studies in Rome. As he is more or less a stranger in Paris, Ishould be very thankful if you would interest yourself for him. He reallyis a genius; but, as so often happens, geniuses don't have pocket-money."

I answered: "Please tell him to come and see me. I have some music I wishto have transposed. Do you think that he would be willing to do it?"

"Certainly; he would be glad to do anything," was the answer.

The next day a pale young man presented himself. "You are Monsieur
Massenet?" I inquired.

"Yes, Madame," came the gentle answer.

Thereupon I gave him the music, and I showed him to a quiet little room inthe upper part of the house, which contained a piano, writing-table, penand ink, etc., and left him to his fate. He came two or three times beforeI heard him play, and then it was only by chance that I passed through thecorridor, and imagine my astonishment at hearing the most divine musicissuing from the room where the young man was working. I rushed in,saying:

"What is that?"

"Nothing," he answered.

"Nothing!" I exclaimed. "I never heard anything so exquisite, Do play itagain."

"It was simply something that passed through my head," he answered.

"Then let something else pass through your head. I must hear more." Isaid. Then he played, and I sat and listened to the most bewildering andbeautiful music that I ever heard. From that moment there was no morecopying. What a genius he is! I wish you could hear him improvise!

We have invited him frequently, and when we are at Petit Val he comesoften out to see us, and luxuriates in the repose and comfort of our lifehere. He has already written some lovely songs under its influence. Hecomposed one called "l'Esclave," and dedicated it to me for my birthday.He accompanies me as no one has ever done before.

Auber, who drives out occasionally, is delighted to see that "OurMassenet," as he generally calls him, is getting color in his pale cheeksand his bright and eager eyes are brighter than ever, and he is actuallygetting fat.

PARIS, January, 1866.

We have just returned from Nice and Cannes, also from a very disappointingyachting cruise in the Mediterranean, which proved to be a completefiasco. I must tell you about it. Lord Albert Gower had invited us to goto Spezia on his beautiful yacht. From there we were to go to Florence,and later make a little trip in Italy. We had all been asked to a dinnerat the Duke de Vallombrosa's villa at Cannes, and some of us to spend thenight there.

The evening before we started there was a large dinner at the prefect'sgiven in honor of the Austrian Ambassador, Prince Metternich, who had comeon an official visit concerning an archduke, at which Lord Albert proposedthat we should take Cannes en route, spend the night there, and startthe next day for Spezia.

I thought that I was going to have a beautiful time when we left Nice. Thesun was shining brightly, and there was every prospect of a good breeze,and I settled down on deck with books and work, thinking how delightful itwas all going to be, and how pleasant it was to get away from thefatiguing gaieties of Nice, where there had been a perfect avalanche ofdinners, balls, and theater-parties which even surpassed Paris.

Well! A dead calm set in about an hour after we had started, and only avestige of a breeze wafted us along on our way, and we never arrived atCannes till seven o'clock, just in time to disembark, jump into acarriage, and reach the Duke de Vallombrosa's villa. I thought that I wasvery expeditious over my toilette, notwithstanding which I found myselfhalf an hour late for dinner. Fortunately, however, our hosts were lenientand accepted my excuses.

Lord and Lady Brougham, Duke de Croy, and many others were there. And whoelse do you think? No less a personage than Jenny Lind! You may imagine mydelight at seeing her—"the Goddess of Song," the idol of my youth—aboutwhom still hung a halo.

She is neither handsome nor distinguished-looking; in fact, quite thecontrary: plain features, a pert nose, sallow skin, and very yellow hair.However, when she smiled, which was not often, her face became almosthandsome.

After dinner the duch*ess de Vallombrosa begged her to sing; but she flatlyrefused, and there was no other music, thank heaven! I was presented toher, in spite of her too evident dislike for new acquaintances; but whenshe heard that I sang she seemed more amiable and interested. She evenasked me to come to see her the next day. "That is," she said, "if you canclimb my hill." I told her that I was sure I could climb her hill, andwould, even if I had to climb on all fours.

After having been on the glaring Mediterranean all day I could hardly keepmy eyes open, and retired before the last carriage had driven away. Thenext morning I looked out of my window and saw our yacht dancing on thesparkling waves. We expected to leave for Spezia that afternoon.

At eleven o'clock, the hour appointed, I commenced my pilgrimage to thehill of the "Swedish nightingale," with what emotion, I can hardly tellyou! I left the carriage at the foot of the hill, and climbed and climbed,until I reached the heaven where the angel lived. It was the reverse ofJacob's dream. His angel climbed down to him, whereas I had to climb up tomine. She always used a donkey for her climbings.

She received me very cordially, saying, "I welcome you to mybicoque," and led me through a few badly furnished rooms with hay-stuffed sofas and hard, uncompromising chairs and queer-looking tablespainted in red and green out on to the veranda, which commanded amagnificent view over the sea and the Esterel Mountains.

I wish you could have seen her! She was dressed in a white brocade trimmedwith a piece of red silk around the bottom, a red, blousy waist coveredwith gold heads sewed fantastically over it, perhaps odds and ends of oldfinery, and gold shoes!

Just fancy, at eleven o'clock in the morning! We talked music. She hatedVerdi and all he had made, she hated Rossini and all he had made; shehated the French; she hated the Americans; she abhorred the very name ofBarnum, who, she said, "exhibited me just as he did the big giant or anyother of his monstrosities."

"But," said I, "you must not forget how you were idolized and appreciatedin America. Even as a child I can remember how they worshiped Jenny Lind."

"Worshiped or not," she answered, sharply, "I was nothing more than a showin a showman's hands; I can never forget that."

We sat on her veranda, and she told me all about her early life and hermusical career. She said she was born in 1820, and when only ten years oldshe used to sing in cafes in Stockholm. At seventeen she sang "Alice" in"Robert-le-Diable"! Then we talked of our mutual teacher, dear Garcia, ofwhom she took lessons in 1841 and whom, for a wonder, she liked.

At the Rhein-fest given for Queen Victoria in 1844 she said that shehad had a great success, and that Queen Victoria had always been a friendto her since that time.

I asked her when she first sang in London.

"I think it was in 1847, or thereabouts," she replied. "Then I went to
Paris; but I do not wish to speak of that horrid place."

"Is Paris such a horrid place?" I asked. "I wish you would come while I amthere."

[Illustration: JENNY LIND]

"Never, never!" she cried. "They treated me so abominably I vowed that Iwould never set foot in Paris again, and although they have offered meevery possible inducement I have always refused."

"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "Would you not like to see the Exposition in
Paris next year? I think it might interest you."

"Yes, that might interest me; but Paris! Paris!"

"Do you know Auber?" I asked.

"Auber. No, I have always wanted to know him, but have never had anopportunity."

"If you will come to Paris, I will arrange that you meet him."

"I will! I will! And then I will sing for him!" she said, with almostgirlish glee.

How delighted I was to think that I might be the medium to bring themtogether.

She asked me a great many questions about my singing. Suddenly she said,
"Make a trill for me."

I looked about for a piano to give me a note to start on. But a piano wasevidently the thing where the Goldschmidts had drawn the line. I made asgood a trill as I could without one.

"Very good!" said she, nodding her head approvingly. "I learned my trillthis way." And she made a trill for me, accentuating the upper note.

Pointing her finger at me, she said, "You try it."

I tried it. Unless one has learned to trill so it is very difficult to do;but I managed it somehow.

Then she said, in her abrupt way, "What vocalizes do you sing?"

I replied that I had arranged Chopin's waltz in five flats as a vocalize.

"In the original key?" she asked. "I know it well. It is one of
Goldschmidt's favorite concert pieces."

"Not in the original key. I have transposed it two notes lower, and putsome sort of words to it. I also sing as a vocalize the first sixteen barsof the overture of Mendelssohn's 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'"

"I don't think that I could do that," she said.

"I am sure you could," I answered, upon which she tried it. She sang itslowly but perfectly, shutting her eyes as if feeling her way cautiously,for the intonations are very difficult.

Twelve o'clock sounded from a cuckoo-clock in the next room, and I feltthat my visit, fascinating as my angel was, must come to an end. I lefther still standing on the veranda in her white brocade, and as I walkedoff she made the trill as an adieu.

I reached the villa in time for breakfast, after which our hosts drove usdown to the pier, where the little rowboat was waiting to take us out tothe yacht.

I said that our trip was a failure! It was more than a failure. It meant agale, thunder, lightning, and sudden death, and everything in the Litany,and we finished ignominiously by taking refuge in the first port we couldreach, and going on to our destination by train.

PARIS, February 12, 1866.

DEAR AUNTY,—There has been a regular deluge of balls in Paris thiswinter. The Minister of Marine gave a gorgeous one, the clou of whichwas the entrance at midnight precisely of Les Quatres Continents, beingfour long cortèges representing Europe, America, Africa, and Asia.

I was quite provoked that they did not ask me to be in the Americancortège. I should have loved to have been an Indian squaw, except that ablanket is a rather warm toilette de bal. They wanted me to take acostume of a Spanish lady in the cortège of Europe, but I refused; if Icould not be in the American I did not want to be in any of the others.

Taking part in the cortège meant waiting till midnight before appearing,and then, being in it, you did not see it. I had a banal and not a correctcostume of an Amazone Louis XIII., and stayed in the ballroom all theevening, and saw the procession when it came in. It was very interestingand really beautifully arranged.

Africa (Mademoiselle de Sèvres) was brought in on a camel fresh from thejungle of the Jardin des Plantes, and followed by quantities of natives ofevery variety of shade, from sepia to chocolate, as near to nature as theydared go without spoiling their beauty. Some of the costumes were veryfantastic. Ladies dressed in skirts made of feathers, and beads hangingeverywhere, copied after well-known pictures, and especially after thecostumes of "l'Africaine," of the Opera. The men wore enormous wigs madeof black wool, and black tricots, blacker than the most African ofnegroes.

Asia (Baronne Erlanger) was standing on a platform carried by menialshidden from view and smothered under tiger and other skins. She was poisedwith one foot on the head of a tiger, one hand was clutching a date-tree,and the other hand clinging to the back of a stuffed leopard, it must havebeen difficult for her to keep her balance; her platform seemed veryshaky, and the date-tree waved as if it had been in a tornado. The nativeswho followed her were more beaded and feathery and multicolored than theAfricans, otherwise they looked much alike.

America was represented by a pretty girl (a Miss Carter, of Boston). Shewas brought in reclining in a hammock of gay colors. The American nativeswere not of the kind one meets in New York and Boston; they were mostlythe type taken from the most popular books. There was the sedate Puritanfrom Longfellow's "Evangeline"; the red Indians from Cooper's books;Hiawatha and Pocahontas, of course; and the type most beloved in theEuropean market, that of the plantation tyrant who drags his victim to thewhipping-post with pointed stakes and cudgels, à la Oncle Tom, andlastly the Mexican types with slouched hats and picturesque shirts andleather leggings, pistols bulging from their belts.

Europe (Madame d'Arjuson) was seated in a Roman chair, and looked verycomfortable, in comparison with the other Continents; the platform onwhich she sat was loaded with flowers and dragged in on wheels. All thenational costumes of Europe were extremely pretty and varied. The Germanpeasants in great variety, the Italian ciociara, the Spanish toreador,and the Dutch fisherwoman with her wooden shoes—all were complete.

Worth and Bobergh had not slept for nights, thinking out the differentcostumes and worrying over the details. Worth had the most-brain work, andBobergh was the sleepy partner.

The cotillon was superb; it commenced at two o'clock and finished at thebreak of day. The favors were of every nationality, imported from all overthe world, and tied up with every imaginable national color. I danced withthe Count Vogüé, who is by far the best dancer in Paris. He got masses offavors and gave them all to me, and I also received a great quantity; sothat when I went to the carriage I almost needed a dray to carry them.

PARIS, March, 1866.

DEAR M.,—I think of your sitting in your Cambridge home and reading thisaccount of the frivolities of your daughter. While the scene of last nightis just in my mind, I will tell you about it.

Yesterday was Count Pourtales's birthday, and Prince Metternich thoughtout a wonderful scheme for a surprise for Count Pourtales and the rest ofus. Princess Metternich and Countess Pourtales were the only ones takeninto his confidence.

There was a dinner at the Pourtales' in honor of the occasion, and theguests were Baron Alphonse Rothschild, Count and Countess Moltke, PrinceSagan, the Duke de Croy, and ourselves.

On arriving at seven o'clock we were ushered into the salon, and laterwent in to dinner. All the lights were placed on the table, leaving therest of the room in darkness. The servants seemed to me principallybutlers with the traditional side-whiskers, or chasseurs with beards ormustaches. I thought that they might be extra servants brought in for theoccasion.

The first course was served. A little awkward spilling of soup on thetable-cloth was not remarked upon. The dish came on with its sauce. Astartled cry came from a lady on receiving some drops of it on her bareneck, to which no one paid any particular attention. Then, a few momentslater, some wine was carelessly spilled on one of the gentlemen's heads.These things can so easily happen, no one said anything.

The filet was handed to me, and at the same time the sauce-dish wasuncomfortably near my neck, and directly under my nose. This was toononchalant, and my surprise was still greater when the servant, in anunnatural and gruff voice, said, "Do you want any of this stuff?" I lookedup at the man, and recognized a twinkle in a familiar eye, and as thetwinkle was accentuated by a powerful wink I began to understand and heldmy tongue.

Things might have gone on longer if one of the waiters had not been toobold, and on serving Countess Moltke, a very pretty American lady marriedto a Dane, pushed her arm a little roughly, and in an obviously disguisedvoice said, "Better take some of this, you won't get another chance."

She called out in an indignant voice, "Did you ever hear the like?" CountPourtales seemed dazed, while his wife looked as unconcerned as if therewas nothing unusual. Then the insolent waiters began talking across thetable to each other. One said, "Don't you see that lady with the rose hasnot got any salad?" The other answered, "Attend to your own affairs."Count Pourtales, crimson with mortification, was about to get up andapologize, when he was suddenly pulled back into his seat, and the absurdwaiters began throwing pellets of bread at him.

Imagine his feelings! To be treated in this way in one's own house, byone's own servants! Every one of them must have suddenly gone crazy, orelse they were drunk. For a moment consternation was depicted on all thecountenances; we thought the end of the world had come.

When things had gone so far, Prince Metternich stood up and made a prettylittle speech for the host, and we all drank his health, and the waitersall took off their wigs and false beards and waved them in the air.

Six of the most fashionable young gentlemen of Paris had been serving us!The Pourtales' own servants, who had kept aloof, now came in, and theci-devant waiters drew up chairs between those at the table, and thedinner finished amidst great hilarity.

PARIS, August, 1866.

DEAR M.,—We were invited to go out to Fontainebleau yesterday for dinner.We found it a very hot ride from Paris, and really suffered in the crowdedtrain. When we arrived at the station we found a coupé from the Imperialstables waiting for us, and an extra carriage for the maid, the valet, andthe trunk, which contained our change of dress for dinner. I wished thatthe coupé had been an open carriage. I love to drive through those lovelyavenues in the park. Princess Metternich suggested that we should takesome green corn with us, as the Empress had expressed the wish to tastethis American delicacy, and I took some from Petit Val.

On reaching the palace we were met by the Vicomte Walsh, who led the wayto the apartment of the Baroness de Pierres, one of the dames d'honneurof the Empress (an American lady, formerly Miss Thorne, of New York), whowas expecting us.

You may imagine my astonishment at seeing her smoking—what do you think?Nothing less than a real common clay pipe, and you may imagine hersurprise at seeing me, followed by my servant, who carried a large basketcontaining the corn. I told her about it, and that I had brought some atthe instigation of the Princess Metternich, in order that the Empresscould try it. She seemed to be delighted at the idea, and exclaimed, "Wemust get hold of the chef at once and tell him how to cook it." She rangher bell and gave the order. Promptly Monsieur Jean appeared in his freshwhite apron and immaculate jacket and white couvre-chef. Baroness dePierres and I surpassed ourselves in giving contradictory directions asto the cooking of it. She thought it ought to be boiled a long time, whileI maintained that it required very little time.

"You must leave the silk on," said she.

"Has it got silk?" asked the bewildered chef.

I was of the opinion that the husks should be taken off. "By no means!"she declared, and explained that in America the corn was always served inthe husk.

The chef, trying to analyze this unusual article of food, lifted one ofthe ears from the basket and examined it.

"En robe de chambre, alors, Madame!" said he, and looked dismayed at thesecomplications.

"Yes," she replied, "just like a potato—en robe de chambre."

We could hear him as he left the room, followed by the basket, mutteringto himself, "Soie! robe de chambre! Soie! robe de chambre!" in his mostsatirical tone. I began to feel a little nervous about it myself, andwondered if for this broth there had not been too many cooks.

We went out before dinner to see the famous carp; I looked in vain for theone with the ring in its nose.

At dinner, besides the Household, were the Princess Mathilde, MonsieurOllivier, Monsieur Perrière, the Duke de Persigny, Baron Haussmann, andseveral statesmen.

The corn came in due time served as légume.

I was mortified when I saw it appear, brought in on eight enormous silverplatters, four ears on each. It looked pitiful! Silk, robe de chambreand all, steaming like a steam-engine. Every one looked aghast, and no onedared to touch it; and when I wanted to show them how it was eaten in itsnative land they screamed with laughter. Baron Haussmann asked me if thepiece I was playing (he meant on the flute) was in la-bémol?

I looked to the Baroness de Pierres for support; but, alas! her eyesrefused to meet mine and were fixed on her plate.

I tried to make the corn less objectionable by unwrapping the cobs andcutting off the corn. Then I added butter and salt, and it was passedabout; first, of course, to the Emperor, who liked it very much; but theEmpress pushed her plate aside with a grimace, saying, "I don't like it;it smells like a baby's flannels."

The Emperor, seeing the crushed look on my face, raised his glass andsaid, with a kind glance at me, "Here's to the American corn!" Ireproached the Princess Metternich for having suggested my taking itthere.

COMPIÈGNE, November 22, 1866.

DEAR A.,—You know it has always been my wish to see the life at
Compiègne, and behold, here I am!

We received the invitation twelve days ago. It reads thus:

MAISON DE L'EMPEREUR

_Palais des Tuileries, le 10 Novembre 1866.

Premier Chambellan_

Monsieur,

Par ordre de l'Empereur, j'ai l'honneur de vous prévenir que vous êtes
invité, ainsi que Madame Charles Moulton, à passer huit jours au
Palais de Compiègne, du 22 au 29 Novembre.

Des voitures de la Cour vous attendront le 22, à l'arrivée à Compiègne
du train partant de Paris à 2 heures 1/2, pour vous conduire au
Palais.

Agréez, Monsieur, l'assurance de ma considération très distinguée.

Le Premier Chambellan.
V'te de Laferrière.
Monsieur,
Madame Charles Moulton.

This gave me plenty of time to order all my dresses, wraps, and everythingelse that I needed for this visit of a week to royalty.

[Illustration: THE MAIN FAÇADE—CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE]

I was obliged to have about twenty dresses, eight day costumes (countingmy traveling suit), the green cloth dress for the hunt, which I was toldwas absolutely necessary, seven ball dresses, five gowns for tea. Such aquantity of boxes and bundles arrived at the house in Paris thatMademoiselle Wissembourg was in a blue fidget, fussing about, boring mewith silly, unnecessary suggestions, and asking so many useless questionsthat I wished her at the bottom of the Red Sea.

A professional packer came to pack our trunks, of which I had seven andC—— had two; the maid and the valet each had one, making, altogether,quite a formidable pile of luggage. As we saw it on the wagon driven fromthe house, it seemed an absurdly large amount for only a week's visit.

We arrived at the St. Lazare Station at 2.30, as indicated on theinvitation.

We found the Vicomte Walsh (the Chamberlain of the Emperor) waiting toshow the guests where the train was. It would have been rather difficultnot to have seen it, as it was the only one in the station, and was marked"Extra and Imperial."

There were several large salon carriages with large, comfortablefauteuils, and some tables covered with newspapers and journauxillustrés to beguile the time. It would take too much time to tell youthe names of all the people I recognized at the station; but in thecarriage with us were the Duke and duch*ess Fernan Nuñez, Madame deBourgogne (whose husband is Equerry of the Emperor), the two PrincesMurat, Joachim and Achille, Monsieur Davilliers, Count Golz (the GermanAmbassador), Baron Haussmann and his daughter, and Mr. de Radowitz of theGerman embassy, who immediately stretched himself out contentedly in acomfortable arm-chair and fell fast asleep.

I should say there were about fifty or sixty guests.

We actually flew over land and dale. I never traveled so fast in all mylife; but then I had never been in an Imperial train before. We did notstop until we reached the station of Compiègne.

I think the whole twelve thousand inhabitants of Compiègne were gatheredthere to stare at us, and they did stare persistently, until we hadmounted the many equipages waiting for us and had driven away.

It certainly must have been very entertaining for them to see the longprocession of carriages, the hundreds of trunks, the flurrying maids, andthe self-important valets.

There were two landaus: one for the Metternichs and one for the German
Ambassador.

The chars-à-bancs, of which there must have been at least ten, weredark green outlined with red, each with four prancing horses whose tails,jauntily braided with red cords, were tied to the saddles.

Each carriage had two postilions, who looked very trim in their shortvelvet jackets embroidered with gold and covered with endless buttons.They wore white breeches, long top-boots, black-velvet caps over theirwhite wigs, and their little pigtails, tied with a black bow, hung downtheir backs, flapping up and down as they galloped.

The Princess Metternich had fourteen trunks and two maids; the Prince hadhis private secretary and valet, and a goodly number of trunks. This willgive you a vague idea of the amount of baggage which had to be transportedin the fourgons.

Don't you think we must have made a very imposing spectacle, as we rattledthrough the quiet town of Compiègne, over its old stone pavement, thepostilions blowing their horns, cracking their whips, the horses gallopingfull speed, the chars-à-bancs filled with handsomely dressed ladies, andafter this long procession came the maids and the valets and mountainouspiles of baggage?

When we entered the grande cour (inclosure), the sentinels grasped theirguns and saluted, as we passed by them, before we pulled up in front ofthe grand staircase of the château, where an army of lackeys were waitingto help us alight.

The Grand Chamberlain received us at the head of the stairs with pleasantcordiality and waved us toward a huissier, who, dressed in a blacklivery with heavy chains around his neck, looked very important. He, inhis turn, passed us on to the particular valet allotted to us, whopompously and with great dignity showed us the way to our apartments.

Our names were on the doors, and we entered the brilliantly lighted rooms,which, after our journey, seemed most welcome with their bright fires andcheerful aspect.

Tea and chocolate were on the table waiting us, and I regaled myself whilethe soldiers (who seem to be the men-of-all-work here) brought in thetrunks and the maid and valet were unpacking.

I must describe our rooms. We have a large salon, two bedrooms, twoservants' rooms, and an antechamber. In the salon there are two longwindows which reach to the floor and overlook the park. The walls arepaneled with pink and mauve brocade. The covering of the furniture and thecurtains are of the same stuff.

My bedroom is furnished in white and green with a delightful chaiselongue and large fauteuils, which to me are more inviting than thestiff Empire style of the salon.

I made my toilette in a maze of excitement; my maid was confused andagitated, and I thought I should never be ready. I think you will beinterested to hear what I wore to-night. It was light-green tulle,embroidered in silver, the waist trimmed with silver fringe. If one couldsee the waistband, one would read WORTH in big letters. I thought it wasbest to make a good impression at the start, so I put on my prettiestgown.

On leaving our apartment, a little before seven, we found the lackeywaiting to show us the way to the Grande Salle des Fêtes, and wefollowed his plump white calves through the long corridors, arriving atlast at the salon where the company was to assemble.

Here we found more white calves belonging to the gorgeous liveries and thepowdered heads of the lackeys, who stood there to open the doors for allcomers. We were not the last, but of the latest, to arrive.

The salon seemed immense to me. On one side the windows (or rather thedoors) opened on to the terrace; on the opposite side of the walls,between the pillars, were mirrors resting on gilded consoles. At one endof the room was the statue of Laetitia Bonaparte (Madame Mère), and atthe other end was one of Napoleon I. Banquettes and tabourets of Gobelinstapestry stood against the walls. The ceiling is a chef-d'oeuvre ofGirodet—style Empire.

The Vicomte de Laferrière and the duch*esse de Bassano, the grandemaîtresse, came forward to receive the guests.

[Illustration: SALLE DES FÊTES—CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE]

My first feeling, when I entered the room, was that I knew no one in thisnumerous assemblage. There must have been a hundred people at least; butgradually the faces of my acquaintances loomed one by one out of the mist,and among them I recognized the lovely Marquise de Gallifet, who kindlybeckoned me to come and stand by her, for which I felt very grateful.

The chamberlains—there were many of them—bustled about, constantlyreferring to some papers which they had in their hands, in order to telleach gentleman which lady he was to take in to dinner.

The Grand Chamberlain glanced round the room with an all-comprehensivelook, and seemed intuitively to know when we were all present. He thendisappeared into his Majesty's private salon.

There was an ominous hush, a flutter of agitation, a stiff attitude ofexpectancy, the guests arranging themselves according to their ownconsciousness of their rank; and presently the doors of the salon werequietly opened and their Majesties entered. The gentlemen bowedreverentially; the ladies courtesied very low, and the sovereigns,responding with a gracious inclination of the head, advanced toward us.

The Empress turned to the ladies, the Emperor to the gentlemen, speaking aword of welcome to as many of the guests as the time allowed. Fifty orsixty bon soirs and charmé de vous voir's occupy some time; but theirMajesties kept their eyes on the Grand Maréchal, and he kept his eye onthe clock.

The Empress looked lovely. She wore a beautiful gown, a white-spangledtulle, with a superb tiara of diamonds, and on her neck a collier ofhuge pearls.

The Emperor was in white culottes courtes, white-silk stockings andlow shoes, as were the rest of the gentlemen. He wore the ribbon of theLégion d'honneur, and on his left breast the star of the same.

The Grand Maréchal, waiting his opportunity, approached his Majesty, whowent up to the Empress and gave her his arm. The Grand Maréchal then ledthe way slowly and with due stateliness to the banqueting hall.

The gentlemen offered their arms to their respective ladies, and wemarched in procession through the long gallery, trying to preventourselves from slipping on the waxed floor, and passed between thesplendid Cent Gardes, who lined both sides of the entire length of thisenormous hall. Their uniforms are magnificent and dazzling; they wearlight-blue coats under their silver cuirasses, white breeches, and high,shiny top-boots; and on their heads silver helmets, from which flow longmanes of white horsehair that hang down their backs.

There the men stood, motionless as statues, staring stolidly before them,without so much as a stolen side-glance at the beauty and elegance passingbefore their eyes.

This procession of ladies glittering with jewels, the officers anddiplomats in their splendid uniforms covered with decorations and gay-colored cordons, made a sight never to be forgotten; at least, I shallnever forget it.

When their Majesties entered the dining-room they separated, and tooktheir places on opposite sides of the table, half-way down its length andexactly facing each other. The Emperor had Princess Metternich on hisright hand, and the duch*ess of Fernan Nuñez on his left. The Empress hadthe Austrian Ambassador, Prince Metternich, on her right, and the GermanAmbassador, Count Golz, on her left.

The other invités were placed according to their rank and position:all the gros bonnets were in their right places, you may be quite sure.I was such a little bonnet among all those great people that I waspractically nowhere, and at the tail end of everything except the membersof the Household and the ladyless gentlemen, who, of course, were belowme.

There must have been about one hundred persons seated at the table. Inever saw such a tremendous long stretch of white linen.

The flowers, stiffly arranged at intervals, alternated with whiteépergnes filled with bonbons, and larger fruit-dishes filled with themost delicious-looking fruit. All along the whole length of the tablewere placed, at regular intervals, the groups of pâte tendrerepresenting the Hunt. These, as my cavalier (Count de Bourgogne) told me,are made only at the Sèvres manufactory, expressly for the Frenchsovereigns. They were designed in the time of Louis XV. by an artistcalled Urbain, and have been reproduced ever since. It would seem as ifnothing had been found worthy to replace them.

The service de table was of white Sèvres porcelain with only the letter
"N" in gold surmounted by the Imperial crown; many of the courses were
served on silver plates, in the center of which were engraved the arms of
France.

A strip of red velvet carpet laid over the polished floor surrounded thetable. On the outer side of this carpet were the chair, to be pushedforward as soon as people were ready to sit down. The lackeys stood in aline all the way down the room, making a very imposing sight in their red-and-white liveries; there must have been forty or fifty of them at least.The Emperor's chasseur always stands behind his chair and serves him,and him alone, taking a dish of each course, as it is brought in, from themaître d'hôtel. No one but this privileged chasseur can hand anything inthe way of food to his Majesty. When the Emperor has served himself, thechasseur hands the dish back to the maître d'hôtel, who passes it onto the other servants, who then serve the guests. The Empress is served inthe same way.

I suppose this custom dates back to the time of the Borgias, when, inorder to save their own lives, they were willing to risk those of theirtrusty menials by making them taste the food before it was put on thetable.

A military band played during the dinner. It was placed in a largecircular loggia having windows opening on to a courtyard, thus serving twopurposes: to let in the air and let out the music, which, fortunately, itdid, otherwise we could not have heard ourselves speak.

The dinner lasted about an hour. (The Emperor dislikes sitting long attable.) It seemed almost impossible that so much eating and drinking andchanging of plates—in fact, such an elaborate repast—could be gotthrough within such a short time. But it was!

When their Majesties had finished they rose, and everyone followed theirexample. All the chairs were drawn from under you, tant pis if youwere in the act of eating a pear and had not yet washed your fingers; but,no matter, you had to skip across the red carpet in order to let theirMajesties pass.

A rather amusing incident occurred at dinner. One of the foreignministers, who is very vain of the smallness of his feet, had donned apair of patent-leather shoes evidently much too tight for him. During thedinner he relieved his sufferings by slipping his aching toes out of them.All went well until his chair was suddenly drawn from underneath him, astheir Majesties were about to pass. In utter despair he made the mostfrantic efforts to recover the wandering shoes from under the table; but,alas! the naughty things had made their escape far beyond reach (a littleway shoes have of doing when left to themselves); consequently, he wasobliged to trip across the red carpet as best he could without them. TheEmpress, who keenly appreciates a comical situation, had noticed withgreat amusem*nt his manoeuvers and embarrassment, and (was it just for alittle fun?) stopped in passing and spoke to him, much to his confusion,for it was impossible to prevent her from seeing his little, whiteshoeless feet.

On our returning to the salon the magnificent Cent Gardes stood just aswe had left them, and I wondered if they had unbent for a moment all thetime we had been at dinner.

The cercle began, and their Majesties circulated about among theirguests. When the Empress was in front of me, she gave me her hand and saidsome very kind words to me. She noticed I wore the bracelet she had givenme and seemed pleased. I do not know if you ever saw this handsomebracelet—it is composed of large rubies and diamonds set in three heavygold coils. The date when the Empress gave it to me and her name areinscribed inside. The Prince Imperial spoke to every one he knew. He has avery sweet voice, such gentle manners and winning ways. He speaksexcellent English and, of course, several other languages.

Waldteufel, le fabricant de valses, put himself at the piano (an uprightone, standing at the extreme end of the immense ballroom), and played someof his charming entraînante music. But though he played as loudly aspossible, it was difficult to distinguish what sort of music it was, theballroom being so enormous. However it did not make much difference asthere were only a few who wanted to dance and one could see that they wereurged to do so by the chamberlains. Waldteufel has an apartment in thetown of Compiègne, where he fabricates his waltzes by day and comes hereto play them by night.

At ten o'clock their Majesties went into the Emperor's private salon witha selected few; then the dancing become general and livelier. Tea andcakes were served at eleven o'clock and their Majesties reentered,conversed a few moments, bowed to every one and withdrew, turned round onreaching the door, and, with a sweeping inclination of the head,disappeared.

We bade good night to our friends about us and withdrew, as did every oneelse, and I, for one, was glad to go to my Royal couch. Good night!

SUNDAY, November 23, 1866.

DEAR M.,—When we came down this morning into the salon we found it almostdeserted, and only realized the reason why when we saw the Empress andother ladies holding their prayer-books devoutly in their hands returningfrom mass, which is celebrated in the chapel of the château. They woreblack-lace veils in place of hats, the Empress wearing hers draped in trueSpanish fashion, which was infinitely becoming to her, being, as she is,"to the manner born."

We remembered then that it was Sunday, and felt subdued, seeing somany who were more pious than we were. In fact, I felt so much so that Ithink it would have been impossible for me to have laughed during thedéjeuner. Perhaps it was fortunate I sat next to the Duke de FernanNuñez, whose sedate and polished manners suited the occasion perfectly. Hedid not encourage any attempt at gaiety. Oh dear, no! Far from it! I feltmyself gradually freezing, and our conversation was of the mostuninteresting character and dry almost to parching.

I began talking to him about Spain. I said I thought it must be such alovely country, so full of romance, sentiment, and so forth. But he nippedmy enthusiasm in the bud by informing me that he was not Spanish.

"I thought you were," I murmured.

"No; I am Italian." This staggered me a little. He was certainly thehusband of the duch*ess de Fernan Nuñez, who was Spanish; why had he notthe same name?

He told me that he was "Dei Principi Pio-Trivulzio," one of the oldestfamilies in Milan, and that when he married his wife (who is a Granded'Espagne) he was obliged, according to the traditions of Spain, totake her name and give up his own.

The déjeuner finished, we returned to the salon, and after theirMajesties had talked a little with their guests the programme for theafternoon, which was to be an excursion to Pierrefonds, was offered tothose who wished to go. We hurried to our rooms to put on our hats, coats,and furs, reappearing equipped for the fray.

The chars-à-bancs and the carriages of their Majesties were drawn up onthe garden side of the terrace. The Emperor took Prince Metternich in hisdog-cart; the Empress drove herself in her English phaëton, accompanied bythe duch*ess de Fernan Nuñez. The rest of us were provided with big chars-à-bancs, each holding six or eight people, and had four horses ridden bytwo postilions. In the same carriage with me was the duch*ess de Persigny,Count Golz, and others; and although it was very cold, we did not mind, aswe were well wrapped in furs and had plenty of rugs. We enjoyed intenselythe beautiful drive through the forest of Compiègne. Monsieur Davillierstold me that the forest contains about fifteen thousand hectares. I shouldthink so, judging from the endless roads and cross-roads, the interminableavenues and wonderful vistas. There were sign-posts at every turn; thosepainted red pointed toward Compiègne.

It took us a long time to reach the forest at Pierrefonds, which joinsthat of Compiègne. By an abrupt turn of the road we came suddenly in viewof the enormous castle of Pierrefonds and the little town, which is knownfor its sulphur baths, and only frequented in summer. No one need informyou what kind of baths they are, as their fumes pervade space and informyou themselves.

[Illustration: CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS]

The imposing castle looks entirely out of place in its surroundings; thelittle hill on which it stands seems as if it had been put there in orderto accommodate the castle.

We passed over two bridges and over a pont-levis at the foot of thecastle; then through a second gateway into a court, and finally over adrawbridge to reach the entrance.

There we got out of the carriages, passed through a dark, vaulted chapeland mounted to the platform, where we had a splendid view of the town andthe forest.

Viollet-le-Duc, who was with us, is the pet architect of the Emperor; heis working hard to restore these magnificent ruins, and has now been tenyears about it, but says that they will never be finished in his lifetime.The Emperor is very proud of showing them as the work of his favoritearchitect, and Viollet-le-Duc is just as proud of having been chosen forthis stupendous undertaking.

We were spared no details, you may be sure, from the smallest of gargoylesto the biggest of chimneys. There is a huge fireplace which reaches to theceiling in the salle des gardes, with funny little squirrels peering atyou with cunning eyes. I wish it had occurred to the great architect tohave utilized this fireplace, for he could very well have put a few logsin it and prevented us poor visitors from freezing to death.

We walked (it must have been miles), examining everything in detail. Wemounted two hundred steps to see the view, and then descended threehundred steps to see the arched cellars. The castle was first bought onehundred years ago as a ruin by some one, who only paid eight thousandfrancs for it; then Napoleon I. bought it, and now Napoleon III. isrestoring it. It is seven thousand meters square. It has eight big towers,etc. I could go on forever, I am so brimful of statistics, but I spareyou.

While the hampers brought from Compiègne were being unpacked we tried torest our weary limbs in some prehistoric chairs, whose carvings piercedour bones to the marrow. I suppose this is what they call payer de sapersonne. I consoled myself, while drinking my tea and eating my cake,with the thought that my personne was paying its little private taxto art.

After this interesting but fatiguing visit, and after the long drivethrough the cold, misty forest, the dead and dry leaves rustling under thehorses' feet as they galloped along, I was glad to rest a moment by mycozy fire before dressing for dinner.

I was a little dismayed when I was told that the famous poet, ThéophileGautier, was to be my dinner companion. I was awed at the idea of such aneighbor, and feared I should not be able to rise to the occasion. Wouldhe talk poetry to me? And should I have to talk poetry to him?

I tried to remember, during our promenade down the hall, Longfellow's"Psalm of Life," in case he should expect anything in this line, and Itried to remember something he himself had written; but for the life of meI could think of nothing but a very improper book called Mademoisellede Maupéon, which I had never been allowed to read, so that would beof no use as conversation.

I might have spared myself this worry, for, from the time he sat down atthe table, he talked of little else than cats and dogs. He loves allanimals. I liked him for that, and one could see that he preferred them toany other topic.

I can't remember all the nonsense he talked. In appearance I think he mustresemble Charles Dickens. I have only seen the latter's photographs; buthad he not rather a skimpy hair brushed any which way and a stringy beard?I fancied him so to myself. At any rate, Gautier looks like the Dickens ofthe photographs.

He said he had eight or ten cats who ate with him at the table; each hadits own place and plate, and never by any chance made a mistake and sat inanother cat's place or ate off another cat's plate. He was sure that theyhad a heaven and a hell of their own, where they went after their death,according to their deserts, and that they had souls and consciences. Allhis cats had classical names, and he talked to them as if they were humanbeings. He said they understood every word he said. He also quoted some ofhis conversation with them, which must have sounded very funny:

"Cleopatra, have you been in the kitchen drinking milk on the sly?

"Cleopatra puts her tail between her legs and her ears back and looks mostguilty, and I know then what the cook told me was true."

Then again: "Julius Caesar, you were out extremely late last night. Whatwere you doing?" He said that when he made these reproaches Julius Caesarwould get down from his chair and, with his tail high in the air, wouldrub himself against his legs, as much as to say he would never do itagain.

"Depend upon it," he added, "they know everything we do, and more."

I asked, "When Julius Caesar comes from his nocturnal walks is hegris (tipsy)?"

"Gris! Que voulez-vous dire?"

"You once wrote a poem (how proud I was that I had recollected it), 'Aminuit tous les chats sont gris.'"

"C'est vrai, mais je parlais des Schahs de Perse."

"Est-ce que tous les Schahs de Perse sont gris à minuit?"

"Madame, tous les Schahs de Perse que j'ai eu l'honneur de voir à minuitont été gris comme des Polonais."

"But the 'chats' you wrote about go mewing on roofs at midnight. Do the
Schahs de Perse do that?"

"Did I write that?" said he. "Then I must have meant cats. You are veryinquisitive, Madame."

"I confess I am," I answered. "You see, that poem of yours has been set tomusic, and I sing it; and you may imagine that I want to know what I amsinging about. One must sing with an entirely different expression if onesings of gray cats or of tipsy Persian sovereigns."

He laughed and asked, with an innocent look, "Do you think I could havemeant that at midnight nothing has any particular color—that everythingis gray?"

"I don't know what you meant; but please tell me what you want me tobelieve, because I believe everything I am told. I am so naïve."

"You naïve! You are the most blasée person I ever met."

"I blasée! I! What an idea!"

Such an idea could only emanate from a poet's brain with an extra-poeticalpoet's license. I was very indignant, and told him so, and said, "Est-ceque tous les poètes sont fous à cette heure de la soirée?"

"Vous voyez," he retorted, "you are not only blasée; you are sarcastic."

I enjoyed my dinner immensely in spite of being blasée, and Gautier'sfun and amusing talk lasted until we were back in the salon. The Emperorapproached us while we were still laughing, and began to talk to us. Itold him that Monsieur Gautier had said that I was blasée. The Emperorexclaimed: "Vous blasée! Il faut y mettre beaucoup de bonne volonté pourêtre blasée à votre âge!"

I said I did not know whether to be angry or not with him.

"Be angry with him," answered the Emperor. "He deserves it."

Waldteufel began playing his delightful waltzes, and every one was boonwhirling about. I never heard him play with so much dash; he really seemedinspired. Prince Metternich asked him to order a piano to be sent to hissalon in the chateau. "I cannot exist without a piano," said he. "It helpsme to write my tiresome rapports."

There were only two pianos, I believe, in the château; the one (upright)in the ballroom and the Erard in the salle de musique.

At eleven o'clock we went into the Emperor's salon, where tea was served.

MONDAY, November 24, 1866.

DEAR M.,—At breakfast this morning I sat next to Prince Metternich. Hetold me that there was to be conseil de ministres to-day, and thereforethere was no question of their Majesties' presence at excursions, and noparticular plans projected for this afternoon.

Thus we were left to our own devices. Prince Metternich's fertile brainwas already at work to imagine something amusing to divert their Majestiesfor the evening. He suggested charades. He is excellent at getting themup.

When we met in the salon he spoke to the different people who he thoughtwould be helping elements.

The Marquise de Gallifet thought that tableaux would be better; Count deVogüé suggested games (he knew several new ones, which he proposed). Allin vain! Prince Metternich insisted on charades; therefore charadescarried the day, of course.

The Prince had already thought of the word "Exposition," and arranged inhis mind what part each one of us was to have. The Vicomte de Laferrière,whom he was obliged to take into his confidence, told him that he wouldshow us the room in which there was a stage for amateur performances.

As soon as their Majesties had departed we proceeded to the said room,where there was a little stage, a very little one, with red-velvetcurtains. Next to this room was a long gallery, in which there was aquantity of chests containing every variety of costumes, wigs, pastiches,tinsel ornaments, and all sorts of appurtenances—enough to satisfy themost dramatic imagination.

Each garment, as it was held up to view, suggested endless possibilities;but the Prince stuck firmly to his first inspiration, and we weredespatched to our different apartments to think out our rôles and toimagine how funny we were going to be.

The Empress is always present at the conseils de ministres, whichto-day must have lasted an unusually long time, as no one was invited toher tea. So we took ours with the Metternichs. The Prince had justreturned from town, and was childishly eager to display the various andextraordinary purchases he had made, which he considered absolutelynecessary for the finishing touches to our toilettes. His requisitesconsisted of an oil-can, a feather duster, a watchman's rattle, and waxenough to have made features for the whole Comédie Française, and paintand powder for us all. He would not tell us what he had procured for hisown costume, as he said he wanted to surprise us, adding, what hecould not buy he had borrowed.

Count Vogüé gave me his arm for dinner. Of course, we talked of littleelse but the charade.

Their Majesties were informed of the surprise which was awaiting them inthe little theater. The Empress said to Prince Metternich, after dinner,"I hear you have prepared something to amuse us this evening. Do you notwish to go and make your arrangements? We will be ready to join you inhalf an hour."

All of us who were to take part disappeared to dress, and returned to thegallery connecting with the stage in due time. Peeping through the hole inthe curtain, we could see the imposing and elegant audience come in andtake their seats with much ceremony and calmness. They little thought howimpatient we were to begin and yet trembling with nervousness. TheirMajesties, the guests, and all the ministers who had stayed for dinnermore than filled the theater. It looked, indeed, uncomfortably crowded.

At last every one was seated, and the first syllable, "Ex," was playedwith great success. It represented a scene at Aix-les-Bains.

Invalids met (glasses in hand) and discussed and compared their variousand seemingly very complicated diseases. They made very funny remarks onthe subject of getting their systems in order in view of the possibleincidents which might come up during the Exposition of the next year.

The Marquis de Gallifet was one of the invalids, and seeing the Ministerof the Interior in the audience, looked straight at him and said, "C'est àvous, Monsieur le Ministre, de remédier à tout cela (It is your business,Monsieur le Ministre, to cure all that)," which made every one roar withlaughter, though Prince Metternich (our impresario) was very provoked, ashe had particularly forbidden any one to address the audience.

The Princess Metternich looked very comical dressed as a Parisiancoachman, with a coachman's long coat of many capes; she wore top-boots,and had a whip in her hand and a pipe in her mouth, which she actuallysmoked, taking it out of her mouth every time she spoke and puffing thesmoke right into the faces of the audience. She sang a very lively song,the words of which her husband had found time to write for her during theafternoon. It began, "C'est à Paris, qu' ça s'est passé." She cracked herwhip and stamped her feet, and must have been very droll, to judge fromthe screams of delight in the audience. The song was full of quips andpuns, and pleased so much that she had to repeat it.

The next word was "Position," and acted only by gentlemen. An amateur, orrather a novice, was taking lessons in fencing, in order to defend himselfa*gainst probable attacks upon him by the barbaric foreigners who next yearwould invade Paris, and he wished to be prepared sufficiently to resentall their insults.

When the curtain came down all the sky came with it, which put the publicin great glee.

The whole word "Exposition" was what we call "Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works."

Count de Vogüé was the showman, and the servant assisting him was no lessa person than the Austrian Ambassador himself, Prince Metternich. As thestage was small, it could not contain more than two couples at a time, sothey were brought on in pairs.

First came Antony, and Cleopatra (the latter Marquise de Gallifet,beautiful as a dream) drank mechanically (having been wound up by theservant) an enormous pearl, and Antony (Prince Murat) looked onwonderingly and admiringly.

Madame de Bourgogne and Count Grammont were a Chinese chop-stickingcouple. When wound up, their chop-sticks went everywhere except into theirmouths. The Marquise de Chasselouplobat and the Marquis de Caux wereshepherd and shepherdess, with the usual rakes, baskets, ribbons, etc.

I was a mechanical doll sent from America (the latest invention) for theExposition. I was dressed as a Tyrolienne with a red skirt, a blackbodice, and a hat with a ridiculous feather sticking out from the back ofit, which Prince Metternich said I must have.

While the others were on the stage Princess Metternich wrapped a lot ofsilk paper around me and tied it with bows of wide ribbon, thus coveringme completely, head and all. I was carried in and placed on a turningpedestal.

The showman explained the wonderful mechanism of this doll, unique of itskind, and capable of imitating the human voice to such a degree that noone could hear any difference.

When he had finished talking (I thought, as I stood there, motionless andstifling under my paper covering, he never would stop) he tore off thepaper and called his assistant to wind me up.

I had so far been very successful in keeping my countenance; but I assureyou, when I saw Prince Metternich's get-up, my efforts to keep myself frombursting out laughing almost amounted to genius. He had said he wished hiscostume to be a surprise. Well! The surprise almost made the mechanicaldoll a failure, and had not Count de Vogüé quickly turned the pedestalaround I don't know how I should have saved myself from disaster.

Prince Metternich was dressed as a servant. He had a velvetine coat, redvest, knickerbockers, white stockings, and servant's low shoes, and hewore a huge black beard and a black wig. He had made his eyebrows so bushythat they looked like mustaches; but his nose had preoccupied him morethan anything else—I don't know much time he had spent in making it.First, he made it hooked and then changed it to retroussé, then againback to hooked, which he thought suited his style best. He commencedit when the first scene was being acted, and had just got it at the rightangle when it was time for him to go on the stage. The result of hisafternoon's labors must have been most gratifying, for he was a stupendoussuccess.

He wound me up and I began singing; but everything went wrong. I sangsnatches of well-known songs, cadences, trills, arpeggios, all pêle-mêle, until my exhibitors were in despair.

"Mais, c'est terrible," cried Vogüé. "Ne pouvez-vous pas l'arrêter? Est-cequ'il n'y a pas de vis?"

"Il n'y a pas le moindre vice, Monsieur," shaking his head in despair.

Then I stopped short. How could I sing when I was convulsed with laughter?

"Il faut la remonter," the showman said, with a resigned air, and, turningto the audience, he announced that such a thing had never happened before."La poupée a été probablement dérangée pendant le voyage." This causedmuch merriment. "Elle a besoin de l'huile," said the Prince in a loudstage whisper, and took the oil-can and flourished it about my shoulders.

They made so many jokes and puns that they were continually interrupted bythe peals of laughter which followed each joke.

"Faites-la donc chanter," implored Vogüé. "N'y a-t-il pas un clou?"

"S'il y en avait eu un, je l'aurais trouvé, puisque c'est le clou de lasoirée."

"Mon Dieu! Que faire? Et tout le monde qui attend. Cherchez bien. Voustrouverez peut-être un bouton."

The Prince answered, sadly, "Not a sign of a button, Monsieur." And headded, in a loud voice, "We ought to have a button in gold, so thatone can see it."

He said this with intention, thinking it might suggest to the Emperor togive me the gold button which he only gives to those he wishes to makelife-members of his Hunts. Ladies do not often get them. At last, themortified assistant applied the rattle and wound me up again. I gave alittle nod with my head; they both struck attitudes of satisfaction, andone said, "Now she is going to sing 'Beware!'" which called forth a burstof applause from the audience. I sang "Beware!" and the Prince, thinking Imade the trill too long, tried to stop me by using the rattle again, whichwas almost the death of me. I wore some long ribbons around my neck, andthe more the Prince turned it, the tighter the ribbons choked me. HappilyI had breath enough to go on singing; but I turned my head and fixed aglassy eye on my tormentor, and, instead of singing "Trust her not, she'sfooling thee," I sang, "Trust him not, he's choking me, he's choking me."

Luckily he understood, and the people who knew English understood andappreciated the situation.

When it was all finished the Empress came hurriedly toward me, exclaiming:"Thank Heaven! I thought the Prince was going to strangle you. I was sofrightened." She then kissed me on both cheeks, and the Emperor gallantlykissed my hand.

They both said they had never laughed so much in their lives, and weremost profuse in their thanks, complimenting all those who had taken partin the charade; certainly Robert de Vogüé and the Prince Metternich bothoutdid themselves.

It was one o'clock when tea was served in the Emperor's salon. You mayimagine if I was tired.

November 25th.

DEAR M.,—As the programme announced this morning that there was to be achasse à tir this afternoon, I put on my green costume brought for thispurpose.

The Empress appeared also in a green dress, with a coquettish three-cornered hat trimmed with gold braid, and looked bewitchingly beautiful;the Emperor wore a shooting suit with leather gaiters, as did all thegentlemen. Every one looked very sportsmanlike.

M. Davilliers gave me his arm for déjeuner. He told me a great dealwhich I did not want to know about hunting-dogs.

For instance, "Les chiens anglais," he said, "étaient très raillants, trèsperçants, mais hésitants dans les fourrés." So much Greek to me, but Ipretended to understand. He continued to say that the Emperor had anexcellent trainer, who obtained the best results because he treated thedogs with kindness. I inwardly applauded the trainer.

He said it was better to let them have the entire use of their faculties;whereas, if the unhappy animals are stupefied by bad treatment they losetheir initiative, being pursued by the thought of a beating, and theydon't know what to do, instead of following their natural instincts.

I agreed with him entirely, and thought that our conversation was anexcellent preface to the afternoon's sport.

As the Emperor passed me, before we started off, he said, handing me alittle package he held in his hand, "Here is the gold button which you didnot have last night; it makes you a life member of all Imperial hunts."(So Prince Metternich's ruse had succeeded.)

I bowed very low and thanked him, and asked if it would necessitate myhunting. "Certainly not, if you don't want to," his Majesty answered; "buthave you ever seen a chasse à tir?"

At my answer that I had never seen one, nor anything nearer to one thanpeople going out with a gun and coming back with nothing else, he laughedand said, "I must tell that to the Empress."

It is the Emperor's habit to say, when he hears anything which amuses him,
"I must tell that to her Majesty." She is always in his thoughts.

I said, looking at the button, "Last year your Majesty gave me a goldmedal for singing a Benedictus; now I shall sing a hallelujah for this."

"It is not worth so much," the Emperor said, with a kind smile.

"Would you like to accompany me this afternoon," he asked, "and see foryourself what a chasse à tir is?"

I answered that I should be delighted, and said, "Shall I come with agun?"

"Oh dear, no! Please don't!" the Emperor exclaimed, hurriedly. "But comewith stout boots and a warm coat."

The carriages were waiting, and we were soon packed in our rugs andstarted for the shooting.

The Emperor drove Baron Beyens in his dog-cart; the Empress drove with thePrincess Metternich in a victoria to the field, where she left her andreturned to the chateau. I fancy she was afraid of the dampness of thisbleak November day.

We arrived at a great open place and found all the company assembled, andI should say the whole populace of Compiègne had turned into beaters andspectators. The gentlemen took their places in a long line, the Emperorbeing in the middle; on his right the person highest in rank (PrinceMetternich), on his left Count Golz, and so forth.

Madame de Gallifet and I were a little behind the Emperor, between him andPrince Metternich. Behind us were the gamekeepers, loading and handing theguns to their masters as fast as they could. The three first gentlemen hadtheir own chasseurs and two guns each. After the gamekeepers came themen whose duties were to pick up the dead and wounded victims and put themin the bags.

It was a dreadful sight! How I hate it! I am sure I shall not sleep for aweek, for I shall always see the forms and faces of those quivering, dyingcreatures in my dreams. I never will go to a chasse again.

And the worst was, they had frightened the birds and animals into a sortof circle, where they could not escape; the butchery was awful. Thevictims numbered close on four thousand. Prince Metternich alone shottwelve hundred.

How happy I was when it all was over and I could get away from thesehorrors and this miserable sport! We were invited to the tea in theEmpress's salon. I had time to change my dress and put on the high silkgown prescribed for this function.

Such beautiful rooms! First an antechamber, with cabinets of Italiancarving and vitrines and inlaid tables; then the Empress's salon, a verylarge room filled with low arm-chairs, tables covered with knickknacks,books with paper-cutters still in them, as if they were just being read,screens with engravings à la Louis Seize, and beautiful fans on thewalls, also splendid tapestries. It had a lovely ceiling, painted by somecelebrated artist, mostly angels and smiling cherubs, who seemed topossess more than their share of legs and arms, floating about in theclouds.

The Empress generally has a distinguished person, or some kind ofcelebrity, either a traveler or an inventor, even a prestidigitateur (ugh,what a word!), always some one who is en vue for the moment. To-dayit was a man who had invented a machine to count the pulse. He strapped alittle band on your wrist and told you to concentrate your thought on onesubject, then a little pencil attached to the leather handcuff beganmuffing up and down slowly or quickly, as your pulse indicated.

The Empress seemed much interested, and called those in the room whosepulse she wished to have tested. She said, "Now let us have an Americanpulse." My pulse seemed to be very normal, and the exhibitor did not makeany comments, neither did any one else.

"Shall we now have a Germanic pulse?" the Empress risked, and called ComteSolms. "Think of something pleasant," said the inventor. "A ballet is anice thing to think of," said the Princess Metternich, in her shrillvoice.

"Regarde, comme il va vite," the inventor cried, and he showed the paperwith the most extraordinary wavy lines. Every one laughed, and no one morethan Comte Solms himself.

Six o'clock came very quickly, and the Empress, rising, gave the signalfor our departure.

The Marquis de Caux took me in to dinner. He is the most popular andsought-after gentleman in all Paris. No ball is complete without him, andhis presence at any dinner is sufficient to assure its success. He leadsall the cotillons worth speaking of, and is a universal favorite. Heallowed his secret to leak out (un secret de Polichinelle), which allParis is talking about.

I swore secrecy; but I can tell you that it can be contained in one word,and that word is SIMPATICO, which is Italian for his rendezvous with HERat the American Doctor Sim's house, for it is there he meets her. Devinequi peut! (Guess who can!) I have not said anything.

At nine o'clock we all adjourned to the theater in the Palace, to reachwhich we passed through many rooms we had never seen before, and through along gallery. The theater is very handsome, and as large as most of thetheaters in Paris. There is always one theatrical performance during eachweek while their Majesties are in Compiègne. The company of the ThéâtreFrançais had been commanded to play this evening. The piece chosen was thelatest one of Émile Augier, which has had a great success in Paris, called"Le fils Giboyer." Émile Augier, who was invited specially, was present.

Madeleine Brohan, Coquelin, Breton, and Madame Favard had the principalrôles. Such distinguished artistes as those could not but give thegreatest enjoyment. The theater is very handsome; there are only boxes andthe parquet; the Imperial Loge reaches from the first tier of boxes to thelast seats of the parquet in the shape of a shell. Any one standing upthere could touch, on raising the arm, the velvet draperies of theImperial box.

The theater is entirely lighted by wax candles, of which there must havebeen thousands, and all the scenery belonging to the play was sentespecially from Paris.

Their Majesties sat in the center of the Imperial Loge, and the ladyguests and the most important gentlemen, according to their rank, wereplaced beside and behind them.

The other gentlemen sat in the parquet, and circulated about between theacts.

In the boxes were places for the Court ladies, also the ladies invitedfrom the neighboring château and from Compiègne.

The whole assemblage certainly presented the most dazzling and magnificentsight. The ladies in their beautiful toilettes and superb jewels showed tothe greatest advantage in this brilliantly lighted theater. The Empresswas gorgeous in yellow tulle covered with lace and jewels. She wore thefamous Regent diamond, which belongs to the French Crown, in her corsage,and a superb diamond tiara and necklace. Princess Metternich, who is knownto be the best dressed lady in Paris, had a black tulle dress embroideredin gold; she wore a tiara of diamonds and emeralds and a necklace of thesame.

When their Majesties entered every one rose and courtesied deeply; theirMajesties bowed graciously in response. The Master of Ceremonies gave thesignal, and the curtain rose immediately.

The actors seemed inspired to do their best, as well they might, with sucha brilliant audience before them.

I wondered if they did not miss the claque, to which actors are soaccustomed in France. You know the claque is a set of men who are hiredto clap at certain points in the play indicated beforehand to them, inorder that the audience may appreciate the most salient points and jointhe applause, if they wish to.

Every one enjoyed the play immensely. There were portions of it which werevery pathetic. I noticed the Emperor was visibly affected, and the Empresswiped from her eyes una furtiva lagrima, as Donizetti's song has it.

I know I cried my lace handkerchief wet.

The representation lasted till about half-past ten, and after our returnto the salon the Emperor sent for the artists, who had by this timechanged their toilettes. Their Majesties talked long, and, I should say,familiarly with them, and, judging from the way they laughed and chatted,they seemed to feel quite at their ease, especially Coquelin, whoapparently put the Emperor in a very good humor. At eleven o'clockrefreshments were passed round, the carriages were announced, and making adeferential "reverence" the artists took their leave, carrying with theman ornament with the monograms of their Majesties as a souvenir of theirvisit.

I never saw the Empress look so beautiful as she did to-night. Shecertainly is the most exquisite creature, and what is so charming abouther is her utter lack of self-consciousness. Her smile is bewitchingbeyond description, her complexion perfect, her hair of the Venetian type,and her profile classical. Her head is so beautifully put on hershoulders, her neck and shoulders are absolutely faultless. None of themany portraits painted of her, not even Winterhalter's, do her the leastjustice; no brush can paint and no words can describe her charm. I thinkthe famous beauty, Countess Castiglione, cannot begin to compare with her.

Their Majesties withdrew. The guests from the château and those fromCompiègne took their departure, and we all dispersed to our severalapartments.

I am beginning to learn the ways of the life of Compiègne.

At nine o'clock our tea, coffee, or chocolate (as we choose) is brought toour rooms by a white-stockinged and powdered valet.

If you are very energetic, you can go for a walk in the park, or (as I didto my sorrow) a visit to the town. But you are not energetic more thanonce, because you do not find it worth your while, as you must hurry back,and change your dress and shoes before appearing in the salon a littlebefore eleven o'clock, the hour for breakfast. You remain in the samedress until you change for dinner or the Empress's tea. You find everymorning in your room a programme for the day.

Déjeuner à onze heures. Chasse à tir à deux heures. Comédie Française à neuf heures.

So you know what to wear and what to expect; but the invitation to tea isalways made by the Empress's private huissier, who knocks at your doortoward five o'clock and announces, "Her Majesty the Empress desires yourpresence at five o'clock."

The toilette de rigueur for this occasion is a high-necked long silkdress, and you generally remain until six o'clock.

If you are not summoned to her Majesty's tea, tea is served in your ownsalon, where you can invite people to take tea with you, or you areinvited to take tea with other people.

If there is a hunt, the ladies wear their green-cloth costumes and thegentlemen wear their hunting gear (a red coat, velvet cap, and top-boots).The gentlemen wear culottes courtes the first evening they arrive, andon such fine occasions as the curée, and at the Gala Theater, whereoutsiders are invited; otherwise they always wear pantalon collant,which is the most unbecoming thing one can imagine in the way of manlyattire.

At six o'clock you dress for dinner, always in ball dress, and a littlebefore seven you meet in the Grande Salle des Fêtes. At dinner the guestsare placed according to their rank, but at déjeuner there is noceremony, and you engage your partner after your heart's desire. Those whoare high up at dinner try to get as far down at the end of the table aspossible.

With me it is all ups and downs; at breakfast I am 'way up to the verytop, and at dinner 'way down.

After déjeuner the Master of Ceremonies inquires what you wish to do;that is to say, if there is nothing special mentioned on the programme,such as a review, or manoeuvers, or a chasse à courre, when all areexpected to join.

Do you wish to walk? You can tramp up and down the one-thousand-metre-longtrellis walk, sheltered from wind and rain.

Do you wish to drive? There are carriages of all descriptions, chars-à-bancs, landaus, pony-carriages, and even a donkey-cart, at your service.

Do you care to ride? There are one hundred and fifty horses eating theirheads off in the Imperial stables waiting for you.

Do the gentlemen wish to go shooting? There are countless gamekeepersbooted and spurred, with guns and game-bags on their shoulders, impatientto accompany you.

Whatever you do, you are expected to be in your rooms before four o'clock,which is the time the Empress will send for you, if she invites you fortea.

The cercle always follows each repast, and dancing or music alwaysfollows the cercle. Tea is served at the Emperor's salon at eleveno'clock, after which their Majesties retire, and you do the same.

November 26th.

DEAR M.,—A very embarrassing thing happened to me this morning.

We thought we could manage an excursion to the town. I wanted to see the
Cathedral, and it did not seem far away.

Therefore, bright and early, at nine o'clock we started on our trip.

We saw the Cathedral; but I had not counted on the time necessary for thechange of toilette, which I had to make before déjeuner.

I found on my table an envelope containing this poetry, which I inclose,from Théophile Gautier. I suppose he considered it as a sort of amendehonorable.

À MADAME CHARLES MOULTON

Vos prunelles ont bu la lumière et la vie; telle une mer sans fond boit l'infini des cieux, car rien ne peut remplir l'abîme de vos yeux, où, comme en un lotus, dort votre âme assouvie.

Pour vous plus de chimère ardemment poursuivie, quel que soit l'idéal, votre rêve vaut mieux, et vous avez surtout le biasem*nt des Dieux, Psyché, qu'Éros lui-même à grand'peine eût ravi.

Votre satiété n'attend pas le banquet, et connaissant la coupe où le monde s'enivre, dédaigneuse à vos pieds vous le regardez vivre.

Et vous apparaissez par un geste coquet, rappelant Mnémosyné à son socle appuyée comme le souvenir d'une sphère oublié.

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.

Charles had gone long before, and I became absorbed in reading it, andforgot to look at the clock, when suddenly, seeing how late it was, Irushed down into the gallery, and what was my horror at finding myselfalone with the Cent Gardes, who were standing at ease! It was thefirst time I had ever seen them look like mortal beings, and not likestatues, and it signified, naturally, that every one was in the salle àmanger, and that I was too late. However, I thought I could slip intothe room unnoticed, and a place at the table would be offered to me; but,alas! it happened that just this morning the Emperor had desired me to sitnext to him at the table, and the valet de chambre had been and was still,waiting for me at the door to conduct me to my place on the sovereign'sleft hand.

I cannot tell you how I felt as I was being marshaled up the whole lengthof the room, stared at by every one, and criticized, probably, for thishorrible breach of etiquette. I never was so mortified in all my life. Itook my place, speechless and confused, and Prince Murat, who sat on theother side of me, kept saying, "The Emperor is piping mad." The PrinceMurat is half American (his mother was a Miss Frazier, from New Jersey),therefore I will forgive him for wanting to tease me.

I suppose I must have looked very red, and I certainly was very out ofbreath, for the Emperor, probably noticing my embarrassment, kindly said,"Don't worry; you are not late."

I told him I had been sight-seeing in Compiègne, and I hoped he wouldforgive me.

The Empress smiled and nodded to me in the most gracious manner across thetable, as if to put me at my ease.

The Emperor told me that he had sent up to Paris for a game of croquet,having heard from Prince Metternich that we all loved so much to play it,adding that he would like to see the game himself. "We are going to have amock battle this afternoon," said he. "All these generals and officers whoare here have come from everywhere to take part I think it will amuse youto see it, if you have never seen anything of the kind."

I assured him I had never seen a battle, mock or otherwise, and had noidea what it could be like.

"Well, you shall see," he said.

"Is there," I inquired, "as much firing as yesterday?"

"Much more; but this time with cannons," he replied.

"I hope the cannon-balls are also mock," I ventured to say.

I told the Emperor of the poetry which Gautier had sent to me, and, havingit in my hand, showed it to him, saying, "Ought I to forgive him?"

"You ought to forgive him," he said. "This is the most exquisite thing Iever have read."

"If your Majesty says so, I will."

The manoeuvers were to commence at two o'clock. All the ladies wore theirhunting-dresses, and I was proud to don my gold button.

The various equipages were waiting to take us to the field.

The duch*ess de Persigny, Princess Murat, Baron Beyens, the Marquis deCaux, and I got in the same carriage; many of the ladies appeared onhorseback. Princess Ghika rode one of the three horses she had broughtwith her to Compiègne. Madame de Vatry rode one of the Emperor's.

All the carriages, on reaching the field where the manoeuvers were to takeplace, were drawn up in line, in order that every one should have a goodview. Then the Emperor and Empress, on their beautiful horses, and thePrince Imperial, full of youthful dignity, on his cream-colored pony,arrived, accompanied by the staff of splendidly uniformed generals andofficers, who took up their positions behind their Majesties before themanoeuvers commenced.

The Empress looked radiantly beautiful, her well fitting riding-habitshowing her fine figure to the greatest advantage.

It was, as the Emperor had said, a mock battle, but it seemed to me, nothaving had much experience in battles, to be very real.

Officers careered over the field for dear life; orderlies with enormousflat, four-cornered things flapping across their backs, scurried to andfro; trumpeters sounded bugles, waved flags, and made signals…. Whatcould look more real and less mock than this?

It was France versus an imaginary enemy.

It seemed as if the one thing France craved and coveted was a poor, lonelyfarm-house in the distance, apparently unprotected. All the stratagems ofwar, all the trumpeting and capering about, were brought to bear onconquering that little house. The artillery collided up against it; theinfantry, with drums beating, marched boldly to the very door-steps; thecavalry pranced around it…. But for the life of me, though I was staringas hard as I could through my opera-glasses, I could not tell whetherFrance had got it or not. However, there was so much smoke, it might havecapitulated without my noticing. I suppose the generals knew.

It made me think of Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade."

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,
Volley'd and thunder'd.

The guns and cannons kept up such a continual firing that the groundactually shook under our feet.

I wondered why so much powder and energy should be wasted on a helplessfarm-house, and dreaded to think what the real thing must he, if this wasonly sham.

When it was apparently finished, and every one in the neighborhood hadsurrendered, they sounded a grand fanfare, and blew a mighty blast oftrumpets, the officers dashed up full tilt to the Emperor, and announced,"Victory all along the line!"

I can't tell you how sweet the little Prince looked when he distributedthe médaille de mérite to the brave warriors, who received it withdue modesty, saluting gravely.

The Emperor rode about among the carriages and asked us ladies how we hadliked it, and if there had been too much noise.

The company at dinner to-night looked particularly brilliant; there musthave been a hundred and fifty people present, as the generals and theofficers were asked to remain to dinner. I had one general next to me attable, the famous General Changarnier, who my other neighbor said had onefoot in the grave and the other dans le plat. He was so old and thin andbony that if his uniform had not kept him up he would have crumbledtogether before my eyes, and have become a zero instead of a hero.However, he kept together while dinner lasted, for which I was thankful,and I returned him safely to posterity and to the salon.

Their Majesties devoted themselves exclusively to the Army after dinner;but they sent word by a chamberlain that we were to commence dancing,though they had not finished the cercle.

Waldteufel was already seated at the piano, waiting.

The officers danced vigorously. The elder ones ventured on quadrilles, anddanced them with great gusto.

Prince Murat, noticing the old general skipping about so youthfully,proposed a Virginia reel, with a view to giving them a little moreexercise.

Every one entered into the spirit of it; but there were only a few whoknew how to dance it.

Both Prince and Princess Metternich had learned it at Petit Val. Madame
Gallifet knew it as "Sir Roger de Coverley" from her English days, and
Prince Murat must have learned it from his American mother.

The Emperor danced with me, as he said he would only dance with anexpert!

The Empress had Count Golz for her partner, and stood next to me; Princess
Metternich (full of fun) chose one of the most ancient warriors. Madame de
Persigny and Prince Murat were at the end of the line; the other guests
filled the intermediate places.

Prince Metternich, knowing the music, thought he was absolutely necessaryat the piano, consequently he took Waldteufel's place there.

I, as "the expert," led off. The Emperor tried to imitate me, but becameconfused by the constant shouting from his cousin (Prince Murat) at theother end. However, he and I managed to finish our part; but the Emperorrefused to be swung, and we marched down the middle of the line, hand inhand, disregarding the rules in a truly royal manner. Then, having watchedthe Empress go through her part (she also marched down in a royal manner),the Emperor seemed bored at looking at the others, and called the Marquisde Caux to take his place. Next, Prince Metternich began improvising reelsof his own invention, which turned into all sorts of fantastic measures,which were impossible to dance by. Madame de Persigny, in turning, fellflat on her back; every one rushed to her rescue, which caused greatconfusion, as people lost their places and could not find them again.

This brought our famous reel, which proved to be a dead failure, to anabrupt close; and the old generals, for whose sake we danced it, never gota chance to show what they could do; and we were thankful when Waldteufelreturned to the piano and played a waltz, to which we could dance until itwas time for the Emperor's tea, and then,

Bonsoir!

November 27th.

DEAR M.,—Baron Haussmann took me in to déjeuner this morning. TheBaron is the Préfet de Paris. He is very tall, bulky, and has anauthoritative way of walking ahead and dragging his partner after him,which makes one feel as if one was a small tug being swept on by a man-of-war! I wondered if the Cent Gardes noticed how I tripped along, takingtwo steps to his one, until he reached his seat at the table, into whichhe dropped with a sigh of relief.

His body in profile defies any one's looking around the corner, so tospeak. I could only see at intervals Marquise Chasselouplobat's shapelyelbows and hands. Our conversation turned on the new improvements heintends to make in Paris. He asked me how I liked the boulevard of hisname, just completed.

"I like it," I answered, "though it has deprived us of a good part of ourgarden." (It had cut off just half of it.)

"It brings you nearer the Bois," he added. "I hope the Government paid youwell for it."

"I suppose the Government thinks it did; but our croquet-ground is goneforever."

"Forever!" he repeated. "Where do you play now?"

"Sometimes at the Austrian embassy."

"Is its garden large enough for that?"

I answered, "It is not large enough for a real croquet-ground; but theambassador is such an ardent player that he has arranged a place under thetrees where we play—sometimes at night with lamps on the ground."

"I should think that would be very difficult; quite impossible, in fact."

"What else can we do? We have no other place."

After a moment's hesitation he asked, "How would you like it if I put apiece of ground in the Bois at your disposal?"

I could have screamed with joy! What a piece of news to tell my friendsafter breakfast. I chanted a little Gloria under my breath, and askedhim if he really meant it. He said, "Of course I mean it, and as soon as Ireturn to Paris I will have the formal papers made out and sent to you,and you can claim the ground when you like." He added, gallantly, "I willhave the document made out in your name, Madame, in souvenir of ourbreakfast to-day."

Is he not a very generous man? But if every time he sits next to a lady hegives her a slice of the Bois de Boulogne he will soon be out of thegovernment books.

You can readily imagine the delight of my fellow-players when I told themall this after our return to the salon.

The weather looked unsettled; no one felt like driving or walking.However, later, the wind veered about, the sun came out of the heavyclouds, our spirits rose with the barometer, the elements seemed to pointto outdoor amusem*nts. What better than a game of croquet?

The Emperor, as I said before, had sent to Paris for the game, and PrinceMetternich felt it would be rude not to use it. We have been playing it somuch this year that we have quite got it on the brain, and we were veryexcited and most eager to play, and orders were given to have the boxbrought out on the terrace.

Both their Majesties were highly interested; they examined everything withthe greatest curiosity, unwrapped the balls themselves, and were quiteanxious to begin.

The question was, where should the game be put up, and where should thewickets be put down? The lawn was wet, the gravel walks were too narrow.The only place that could be found was under the charmille on theterrace, where stood a grove of old platane trees.

Prince Metternich was, of course, the moving spirit, and undertook tomanage everything. He and d'Espeuilles got a meter measure and measuredoff the distances with great care and precision before placing thewickets. This took a long time. Then he distributed the mallets and thecorresponding balls to each person, and we stood in front of our weaponsready to commence. Prince Metternich was so long and particular abouttelling the rules that he succeeded only in confusing all the beginners.

The Empress was to play with the Prince Metternich, the Marquis deGallifet with the Princess Metternich. The Emperor was to play with theMarquise de Gallifet, Monsieur d'Espeuilles was to play with me:—eightpeople in all! Nothing is so dreadful as a game of croquet with peoplefour of whom are beginners.

The Empress was the first to play; her ball was placed so near the wicketthat nothing short of genius could have prevented her from going through,which she did with great triumph; her next stroke went far beyond, and sheworried it back by a succession of several pushing knocks into itsposition. No one made any remarks. Then the Emperor made a timid stroke,which gently turned the ball over. Prince Metternich remarked that he (theEmperor) should hit harder, at which his Majesty gave such a whack to hisball that it flew into the next county.

"Never mind," said Prince Metternich, and put another ball in front of the
Emperor's mallet, and somehow it got through the wicket.

Princess Metternich played next, and she was an adept, so all went wellwith her. I came after her, and managed to get his Majesty's ball on itsway a bit. Tiresome pauses and long explanations followed.

Prince Metternich shouted, trying to rally the players.

"Marquis, where are you?" disturbing the Marquis from a flirtation. "It isyour turn to play."

"Really; what shall I do?"

"Try to hit this ball."

"Par exemple! Which ball? Where is it? I do not even see it."

"Here it is behind this tree, if you caramboler against the tree youmight hit it." And in this way it went on until the Emperor, bored todeath, slowly disappeared and the Empress suddenly discovered that herfeet were cold and went away, and couples flirtatiously inclined beganwandering off, and it was nearly dark and tea-time before PrinceMetternich (who was worn out trying to make people understand or take anyinterest in the game) realized that there were only a few devotees left onthe 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 sparedsatirical gibes on the subject of our luckless game.

The Marquis de Gallifet, Officier d'Ordonnance de l'Empereur, whomI sat next to at dinner, is what one might call sarcastic—he actuallytears 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 soforth. He spares no one; nevertheless, he is most amusing, veryintelligent, and an excellent talker. He told me of his awful experiencein the war of Mexico. He had been shot in the intestines and left for deadon the field of battle. He managed, by creeping and crawling, "toujourstenant mes entrailles dans mon képi" to reach a peasant's house, wherethe good people took care of him until he was able to be transported to ahospital. There he stayed through a dismal year of suffering. In order tokeep the above-mentioned entrailles in their proper place, the doctorscovered 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 howany one would look placarded like that, but replied that I had never heardof anything quite so awful; but I had heard that every cloud had asilver lining. He laughed and said, "I shall call myself a cloud infuture."

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,
Petit* 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 uniformsthrough the long gallery.

It was earlier than usual when we began to dance; but we were (at least Iwas) interrupted by receiving a message from their Majesties, asking me ifI would kindly sing something for them. Of course I did not refuse, and weadjourned to the music-room, where the Erard piano was.

[Illustration: THE MUSIC HALL—CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE]

I did not exactly know what to sing; but Prince Metternich soon relievedmy mind on that score by saying, "Don't bother about singing anythingserious, and especially don't sing anything classical." The PrincessMetternich could accompany anything which was not too difficult; thereforewe thought I had better sing "Ma mère était bohémienne," of Massé, whichI did. I saw directly that this melodramatic music, beautiful as it is,did not suit the occasion, for though the gaily attuned audience wasvisibly affected by the phrase, Et moi j'ai l'âme triste, they did notshow more signs of emotion than by making a little dab at their eyes withtheir pocket-handkerchiefs.

The Princess remained at the piano, ready to accompany the other songs Ihad brought, which were of the same character, and I stood by her, tryingto decide what I should sing next, when the Emperor came up and asked mefor "Beware!" Charles accompanied that, and I sang it. The Empress askedme if I would sing some Spanish songs for her. I sang "Chiquita," which Ilearned with Garcia, and the "Habañero." She seemed very pleased, andmade me many compliments. Then the Emperor begged me for some negro songs,and asked me if I knew "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," or "SuwaneeRiver," or "Nelly Bly," all of which he remembered having heard inAmerica.

I sat down at the piano and commenced with "Suwanee River." I fortunatelyknew the words of that.

(Oh, Delsarte! what would you have said had you seen your pupil singingthis claptrap music before your sovereigns and their most distinguishedguests?)

Delsarte says that one can force the tears into one's eyes, one can makeone's lips tremble, one can express the most harrowing emotions in one'svoice, and not sing more than "do, re, mi, fa." I tried to profit by histeachings, and brought them to bear upon the pathetic words of "Oh,darkies, how my heart grows weary," and I could see that both theirMajesties were deeply moved. I sang the word "weary" with such pathos thatevery one was more or less affected, and the phrase, "All the world isdark and dreary," I rendered in the most heart-broken tones.

I was sorry that I could not remember the words of "Massa's in the Cold,Cold Ground," as the Emperor wanted it; but I could not. I knew the musicof "Nelly Bly," but had never known the words, so I tried to improvisesome; but it was impossible for me to think of more than two words whichrhymed with "Bly," and those were "sly" and "eye."

With shameful aplomb I sang these senseless words:

Nelly Bly wipes her eye,
On her little frock,
Nelly Bly, Nelly Bly,
Dick a dick a dock.

Happily the Emperor did not notice anything wrong, and was delighted tohear those old songs again, and thanked me repeatedly.

Once seated at the piano, I was not allowed to leave it until myrépertoire of music of this character had been exhausted.

This brought the evening to a close.

Tea was served; their Majesties withdrew, and I fled to my apartmentfeeling that metaphorically I was covered with laurels.

November 28th.

DEAR A.,—To-day I was very high up, 'way up in the clouds, for I satnext to the Emperor.

Davilliers, one of the chamberlains, gave me his arm and conducted me tomy place. The Emperor's first words were:

"I can't thank you enough for the pleasure you gave us last evening."

I tried to express my pleasure at these kind words.

"Did you see how we were affected when you sang 'Suwanee River'? I thoughtto laugh, instead of which I cried; how could you make it so pathetic?"

"That is my teacher's art," I replied.

"Who is your teacher?"

"Monsieur Delsarte. Your Majesty has perhaps heard of him?"

"No," answered the Emperor. "I have never heard of him. Is he a greatsinger?"

"He cannot sing at all, your Majesty; but he has wonderful theories whichgo to prove that one does not need any voice at all to sing; one onlyneeds features to express one's emotions."

"He must be wonderful," the Emperor remarked.

"He is, your Majesty, and quite unique in his way. He says, for instance,when he sings, 'J'ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière,' and comes to 'Tun'en auras pas,' he can make people shed bitter tears, as though it weretoo much to bear."

"His tobacco must be very good?" laughed the Emperor.

"It is the worst thing of its kind, your Majesty, one can imagine," Ianswered.

"Is it perhaps Caporal?" said he, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"I don't know anything about military grades, but, if there were anythinglower than a Caporal I should say it was the name of his tobacco."

"Well," he said, "if he taught you to sing as you sing, il mérite de lapatrie."

The Emperor was perfectly delightful, witty, amusing, and laughingcontinually, with such a keen appreciation he seemed really to enjoyhimself.

As the programme in our room this morning read, chasse à courre, onwent the green dress for the second time, and, of course, the button. Theduch*ess de Fernan Nuñez asked me to drive with her, which I was happy todo, as I like her very much. We sat on the front seat, so as to have thebest view of the proceedings.

The Emperor and Empress were on horseback; all the gentlemen were in redcoats, white breeches, top-boots, and velvet caps, which made them lookvery picturesque.

The rendezvous was at the Carrefour l'Étoile, and when we arrived thehunters and equipage, with the piqueurs and the chasseurs from theneighborhood, who belonged to the Imperial Hunt, were already there.

The Imperial équipage de chasse is composed of ten piqueurs, valets dechien, valets à pieds, valets à cheval, and valets de limiers, and onehundred English hounds. The hounds are trained by the use of drags, whichare, as perhaps you know, bundles of something saturated in blood, whichthe horses drag and the scent of which the hounds follow. The carriageswere drawn up on the side of the road to wait until their Majestiesappeared.

The ladies dressed in rich furs and velvets, the riders in brilliant redcoats on prancing horses, the attendant grooms, the piqueurs in theirgay liveries, green and gold with green-velvet jockey caps, made awonderful spectacle. The day was superb, the sun shone brilliantly throughthe autumn foliage, the hazy distances were of a tender hue, andeverything had an exquisite tint. Never shall I forget it!

Unfortunately our coachman neglected to follow the other carriages, and wedrove about a long time before we discovered that we were on the wrongroad, and then he became quite bewildered and seemed to lose his headcompletely.

After driving from one cross-road to another, we at last chanced upon
Monsieur de Bourgogne, who told us that he was just in advance of their
Majesties, and that they would be there presently. He said that we had
better wait where we were, as the stag would probably pass by that way.

It seemed as if, in fact, we must be near, as we could hear the dogsyelping and the horns sounding (they call it "hallali"). Count de Grammontrode up to us and said we had better follow him, as we would then sooncome in sight of the hunters. Despite all these contradictory advices, ourcoachman managed to arrive on the scene of action just in time for us tosee the poor stag, who had taken to the water for dear life (they call itbat l'eau), and the dogs in a frenzy of excitement barking furiously andplunging after him.

We could not see all that happened, thank heaven! as our carriage wasbehind the whole assembled crowd.

With my tenderness toward all animals, my heart ached for the poor beast,and I hoped sincerely that he would escape his cruel pursuers. I could notsee any pleasure or excitement in watching this painful spectacle, and wasglad when the time came to turn our backs on the whole thing and return tothe château.

At the Empress's tea no one talked of anything else but the events of theafternoon. I pretended that I had seen it all, even to the very end.Princess Ghika, beaming all over with joy, was given the foot, as she wasin at the death.

Count de l'Aigle took me in to dinner. He is one of the neighbors, not oneof the guests; but, as he belongs to the Imperial Hunt, he is alwaysinvited to this dinner.

The Empress looked superb in a brown tulle over satin, looped up withbrooches of diamonds. She had had a diamond crescent in her hair likeDiana. The Marquise de Gallifet was lovely in light-green tulle, with anaigret of diamonds in her blond hair.

The table was arranged most appropriately for the occasion, decorated bythe whole biscuit de Sèvres service de chasse. Every one seemed gayand stimulated by the excitement of the day.

When the usual after-dinner ceremonies and the cercle in the salon wereterminated, the Grand Chamberlain announced to his Majesty that all wasready for the curée, which was awaiting his permission to begin.

The Emperor and the Empress led the way into the long gallery, whichoverlooks the cour d'honneur. We ladies had provided ourselves withwraps and shawls, as we knew we should need them either on the balcony orat the windows of the gallery, of which there are about twenty.

The Empress braved the weather and stood out on the balcony with the
Emperor, well wrapped in furs, for the night was cold; and the gentlemen,
not finding sufficient room, went below and stood on the steps of the
"Perron," which gives on to the courtyard.

All the lackeys, valets, grooms, in fact, all the household servants,formed a large circle in the enormous cour d'honneur opposite theImperial balcony, all bearing flaming torches made of tar, which lightedup the whole place. Behind these stood the populace of Compiègne, who areallowed to be present on these occasions.

At the farther side of the courtyard, and directly opposite theirMajesties, the chief huntsman held up the skin of the stag, whichcontained the entrails, waving it backward and forward, in order to excitethe hounds. The piqueurs stood in front of the "Perron," holding thedogs back with great difficulty, for they were struggling to get loose,and yelping in their eagerness and greediness to rush forward.

As the chasseur waved the skin, the piqueurs let the hounds loose, andwhen they were half-way across the court, approaching the object of theirdesire, the piqueurs called them back, in order to show how welldisciplined and under what complete control they were.

The tantalizing of the poor animals was repeated several times. At lastthe fanfare was sounded, and the hounds were allowed to rush forward midstthe tooting of horns, the cracking of whips, and the cries and shouts ofthe crowd. The torches were waved high in the air, giving a weird light tothe whole scene, and the entrails at last were thrown to the dogs, andbefore you could say "Jack Robinson" everything was devoured. You canpicture to yourself what a unique and fantastic sight this must have been!

It was eleven o'clock when we returned to the salon, where tea andrefreshments were served. Those returning to Paris took leave of theirMajesties and drove to the station, where the special Imperial trainprovided for them was waiting.

Later their Majesties took leave of us.

We lingered a little, as it was our last evening.

On returning to my apartment, I saw on my table a package, on which waswritten, De la part de l'Empereur. You can imagine how eager I was toopen it. Those magic words brought untold visions before my eyes. Whatmight it not be?

I opened the package feverishly, and what was my surprise anddisappointment to find a rather ordinary-looking tabatière and apackage of tobacco, written on it, Du bon tabac pour le maître de chantde Madame Moulton.

Was it not a cruel blow?

November 30th.

Here we are again in Paris, glad to be at home after our gay week inCompiègne, charming and delightful as it was; there is always greatfatigue and tension attending such visits. To-day I luxuriate in onedress; no changing five times a day. I allowed my maid to go out for theday, and we are going to dine at a restaurant…. What a contrast! Itseems as if I had been away a month!

Before we left Compiègne yesterday, when we were taking our morning tea,we were interrupted by the coming in of the majordomo, who handed us apaper. We were not unprepared for this visit, as we had been told by oneof the guests, who had been here before, that every one was expected toremain in their rooms until this important personage had made his rounds,in order to collect the pourboire. I say THE pourboire, because whatone generally gives separately is lumped into one sum. This paper, whichhe handed to us almost at the point of his hallebarde, proved to be agià scritto receipt for six hundred francs—our pourboire!

During breakfast yesterday the Emperor took up his glass, and, looking atme across the table, drank my health. Among the guests there was a greatdeal of health-drinking.

Gustave Doré had made some very clever caricatures of some events which hehad drawn beautifully and touched off with aquarelle, as he alone could doit. The little album was passed stealthily from hand to hand under theshelter of the table, with the strictest injunctions not to let any onesee it except your immediate neighbor! With these injunctions it managedto travel about half-way down the table.

He had made a lovely sketch of her Majesty driving a chariot like the"Aurora" in the Rospigliosi Gallery, and had depicted the Emperor seatedon an enormous white horse, leading a charge of cavalry, his arm uplifted.

The Princess Metternich was represented as the coachman in the charade,hat on one side, pipe in her mouth, and looking very débonnaire. PrinceMetternich was shown standing in the middle of an arena, in fulldiplomatic uniform, with masses of decorations and cordons. He had along whip, such as are used in circuses, and men and women (meaning us,I suppose) capering around doing their tricks.

The sketch of Madame de Persigny was very funny. A mass of tullepetticoats, in the midst of which two little feet in the air, and a crownrolling away in the distance.

The picture he made of me was the mechanical doll, ribbons floating allabout, and on every turn of the ribbons was written "Beware!"

The diplomat's shoe was not forgotten. There was a table a mile long, andat the very end of it a little shoe seen underneath.

We were in our traveling costumes, and on our return to the salon their
Majesties went about saying pleasant and gracious things to every one.
They hoped we would remember our visit with as much pleasure as they
would, etc.

There was a greater animation than usual, and less ceremony; people talkedlouder and with less restraint; every one bade good-by to the ladies andgentlemen of the Household who remained. The Empress gave her hand to bekissed by the gentlemen (some of them, not all), kissed some ladies, andshook hands with others.

When their Majesties were ready to dismiss us they bowed, and we alldeparted to get our hats and wraps,

I gave a lingering look at the lovely rooms I was leaving, which were nowdevoid of our trunks and little personal trinkets, nodded a farewell toour particular valet, who was probably thinking already of our successors,descended l'Escalier d'honneur, and passed through the beautifulGalerie des Gardes to the colonnades, where the chars-à-bancs wereready waiting to carry us to the station. We were a rather subdued partyin the train; the conversation mostly turned on the subject ofpourboires. The huissier decides the exact amount that each ought togive. For instance, he knows an ambassador ought to give two thousandfrancs. For a minister of state one thousand francs suffices. Unofficialpeople like ourselves cannot be expected to be out of pocket more than sixhundred francs. As for the poor nobility of France, they escape with fivehundred!

Some were of opinion that it was pleasanter to give en masse, in one bigsum, than to give in driblets; others thought it more satisfactory to handone's offering personally to the different servants; but we all, with onevoice, voted the officious beadle an imposition.

The daily expenses of Compiègne, so the Gouverneur de la Maison told us,and he ought to know, are not less than ten thousand francs a day, andthere are more than nine hundred people living in the Palace at a time, tobe fed and warmed.

To-day, at five o'clock, the fourth série will come; it is called lasérie des oubliés, as ours was called la série élégante. The first iscalled la série obligatoire, the second les ennuyeux.

We found our carriage at the station. Our simple coupé seemed a greatcome-down from the beautiful carriages we had been driving in, and goodLouis and the footman, in their quiet liveries, seemed in fierce contrastto the gorgeous creatures we had been familiar with so lately.

The family is at Petit Val, and we remain there quietly until January.

We found among our belongings an enormous bourriche, containing aquantity of game, hares, pheasants, and so forth.

Good night! I am tired.

PARIS, 1867.

DEAR M.,—You will have heard so much about the Exposition, that I cannottell you anything new. It is now in full swing, and I think it ismagnificent. Of course I cannot compare it to any other, as it is the onlyone that I have ever seen.

I have a season ticket (costing one hundred francs) containing myphotograph and my autograph; therefore no one but myself can use it. TheExposition building is round, and the section of one thing goes throughall the countries; for instance, art, which seems to be the smallestthing, is in the inner circle. If you only want to study one particularindustry you go round the circle; but if you want to study a country yougo down a section. The outer circle is for machinery, and outside in thegrounds, in front of the different countries, are the cafés belonging tothem. Here you can listen to the different national musics, and see thedifferent national types and costumes, and eat the different nationalfoods. We go almost every day, and it is always a delight. You can see thewhole art of cutting diamonds, from the gravel in which they are found totheir final polish. The villa of the Bey of Tunis, a Buddhist temple, aViennese bakery, where people flock to taste the delicious rolls hot fromthe oven, and where Hungarian bands of highly colored handsome zitheristsplay from morning till night, and a hundred other attractions, make theExposition a complete success. You pass from one lovely thing to theother. The gardens are laid through avenues of trees and shrubs, wherefountains play, and beds of flowers and bouquets of plants are arrangedwith the most artistic taste. All these wonders will in six months' timebe reduced to the level and monotony of the Champ de Mars. One can'tbelieve that these large horse-chestnut trees in full bloom are onlytemporary visitors, like the people.

The Prince Oscar of Sweden (he will one day be the King) came often to theExposition, and went about with us. He was very much interested ineverything he saw, especially in the American Steinway pianos. He sent meseveral times some of the famous punch they make in Sweden, also somesilver brooches which the Swedish peasants wear. He has a bateau mouche,in which he takes his friends up and down the Seine. The Princess Mathildeand Madame de Gallifet were of the party last Monday. We mouched as faras Boulogne, where Baron James Rothschild has a charming place calledBagatelle, which the Prince wanted very much to see.

We got out of the boat and walked up to the entrance of the park; but theporter refused, in spite of all pleadings, to let us in, and was almostrude until Monsieur Dué mentioned the name of the illustrious visitor;then the gates were thrown wide open, and we walked in and all over theplace. The porter, becoming most humble and servile, offered to escort usover the house, and even asked us to take tea; but we did not succumb toeither of these temptations.

There are so many kings and sovereigns here: the Emperor of Russia, who isvery handsome and stately; the King of Prussia, who is accompanied by thecolossal Count Bismarck, very noticeable in his dazzling white uniform,and wearing a shining helmet with an enormous spread eagle on top of it,which made him tower still more above ordinary mortals, and reminded me ofall the mythological heroes I knew of. He clanked his sword on thepavement, quite indifferent to the stare of wondering Frenchmen, and wasfollowed by several other tall Germans, who regarded everything de hauten bas with Teutonic phlegm. The Prince of Italy (Umberto) looks rathersmall by the side of these German giants. The Khedive of Egypt, the Shahof Persia, the ex-Queen of Spain, and other sovereigns are flittingabout.

The Baron James Rothschild invited us to go to Ferrière's with PrinceOscar of Sweden. That was very amusing! We had a special train from Parisand Rothschild's special car; when we arrived at Ferrière's we first hadrefreshments, then we walked in the grounds till it was time to dress fordinner. We met before dining in the enormous salon in the center of thechâteau. This salon is two stories high, with a gallery around it, and wasso large that a billiard-table in one corner seemed too small to benoticed, and the concert-grand piano standing at the other end lookedinsignificant. The dining-table was beautifully decorated with garlands ofroses and a whole collection of antique goblets, worth a fortune. Therewere huge bouquets of roses for the ladies, almost too big to carry.

Prince Oscar's brother had once written a very pretty song, called "IRosens duft," which some one had arranged as a duet, and the Prince wantedme to sing it with him (he had thoughtfully brought the music). Allthrough dinner he was teaching me the Swedish words, so that we could singit afterward. He was so intent (and so was I) that every one, I am sure,thought we were having a tremendous flirtation, as they saw our headsalmost touching when he was writing the words on the menu. He also wrote apoem to me (which I inclose), which he said he composed on the spot. Howcan he be so clever?

PRINCE OSCAR'S POEM

WRITTEN AT THE DINNER-TABLE AT LAFERRIÈRE'S 1867

Din sång, hur skön, hur underbar!
En balsamdoft på dina läppar hvila,
En välljudsström från ditt hjarta ila,
Vill mana fram ur verldens haf ett svar:
Din sång, hur skön, hur underbar!

Din ton, hur stark, hur ljuf, hur ren!
En altareld som ingen flägt få störa,
Och dock en storm som sjalens djup kan röra,
En glod som smalta kan "de visas sten":
Så är din ton—så stark, så ren.

Sjung mer, sjung mer, det här så godt
En stund få glämma verldens hvimmel
Och lyss till samklang ur en öppnad himmel,
Om ock för en minut i drömma blott:
Sjung mer, sjung mer, det gör mit hjärta godt.

(Translated literally)

Your voice, how beautiful, how wonderful!
A perfume of balsam rests on your lips,
A torrent of melody rushes from your heart,
That can only be echoed by the world's ocean:
Your voice, how beautiful, how wonderful!

Your voice, how full of power, how enchanting and pure!
A sacred fire which no breeze can trouble,
And yet a tempest that stirs the very soul,
A glowing flame which can melt the philosopher's stone:
Such is your voice—so powerful, so pure.

Sing more, sing more, it is so good
For one moment to forget the tumult of this world
And listen to the harmony of a heaven unveiled,
And if only for a moment to dream:
Sing more, sing more, it makes my heart rejoice.

We sang the duet after dinner with such success that we had to repeat it.Before our departure there was a grand display of fireworks: O's appearedin every dimension and design, and a blaze of fire and Bengal lights inrapid succession kept us in a continual state of admiration.

I received a little note from Jenny Lind. She is in Paris, and wished toknow when she could come to see me. I wrote to her directly that I wouldlet Monsieur Auber know, and he would probably come at four o'clock (hisusual hour). Therefore, it all came about. Jenny Lind came, so did Auber.The meeting was a pleasure to them both. They talked music, art, told manyanecdotes of celebrated acquaintances: Alboni, Nilsson, Patti, etc. He hadbrought some of his music with him, and Jenny Lind and I sang the duo ofhis latest opera "Le Premier Jour de Bonheur." He consulted me as towhether he might dare to ask her to dine with him, with a few congenialspirits. I said I was sure she would be enchanted to do so, which she was.

As to the congenial spirits, Auber suggested the Metternichs, Gounod, Dukede Massa, and ourselves, making ten in all.

No one refused, and we had the most delightful dinner. The Princessproposed to Auber to give his arm to Jenny Lind, and to put her at hisright hand, la place d'honneur, adding, with her most ironical smile,"le génie avant la beauté." Auber made a charming host, telling one funnyanecdote after the other in his quiet and typical manner. Gounod, in hislow and drawly voice, said: "Vous nous donnez, mon cher Auber, des chosespar trop ennuyeuses aux concerts du Conservatoire. A la pensée des'Quatre saisons' de Haydn je m'endors. Pourquoi ne s'est-il pas contentéd'une saison?" Princess Metternich replied, "Que probablement en lescomposant Haydn s'est mis en quatre." "La moitié m'aurait suffi," saidAuber; "pour moi, elles sont toutes mon automne." (monotone).

When we returned to the salon we discreetly waited for the promised song.

Suddenly Jenny Lind jumped up, saying, "Shall I sing something?"

Of course, every one was wild to hear her. She went to the piano andaccompanied herself in "Qui la voce," of "I Puritani." We were allenchanted, clapping our hands with enthusiasm. Then Gounod played andsang, or rather hummed, a new song of his, saying to Jenny Lind, when hetook his place at the piano, "I am not worthy to succeed you."

We thought him much too modest.

He hummed deliriously!

They asked me to sing, and, though I really hated to sing after thesegreat artists, I did so to please Auber, who accompanied me in "LosDjins," of which he is very proud, because it has the same bass all theway through. How little it takes to please genius!

After this Jenny Lind and I performed the duo from "Le Premier Jour deBonheur" we had practised at my house. She put her arm around my waistwhile we were singing, as if we were two school-girls.

Prince Metternich played one of his brilliant Austrian waltzes, which wasso bewildering that if any man had dared to put his arm round Jenny Lind'smatronly waist I am sure she would have skipped off in the dance.

For la bonne bouche she gave us a Swedish peasant song, which was simplybewitching. Her high notes were exquisitely pure, the lower ones I thoughtweak; but that might have been owing to the good dinner she had eaten—atleast she said so.

There is a musical phenomenon here just now in the shape of an Americannegro; he is blind and idiotic, but has a most extraordinary intelligencefor music. All his senses seem to have been concentrated in this onesense. Prince and Princess Metternich, Auber, and ourselves went to hisconcert. Auber said, "Cet idiot, noir et aveugle, est vraimentmerveilleux." Blind Tom had learned his répertoire entirely by ear;therefore it was very limited, as he could only remember what he had heardplayed a few days before. His memory did not last long. He was wonderful.Not only could he execute well, but he could imitate any one's mannerismsand their way of playing. The impresario came forward, saying, "I am toldthat Monsieur Auber is in the audience. May I dare to ask him to come upand play something?" Auber said he thought he should die of fright. We allurged him, for the curiosity of the thing, to play something of his newopera, which no one as yet had heard, therefore no one could have knownit.

Auber mounted the platform, amid the enthusiastic applause of theaudience, and performed his solo. Then Blind Tom sat down and played itafter him so accurately, with the same staccato, old-fashioned touch ofAuber, that no one could have told whether Auber was still at the piano.Auber returned and bowed to the wildly excited public and to us. He said,"This is my first appearance as a pianist, and my last."

Prince Metternich, inspired by Auber's pluck, followed his example, andmounting the stage rattled off one of his own fiery, dashing waltzes,which Blind Tom repeated in the Prince's particular manner. After theconcert we went into the artist's room to speak with the impresario, andfound poor Tom banging his head against the wall like the idiot he was.Auber remarked, "C'est humiliant pour nous autres."

PARIS, June, 1867.

DEAR M.,—The famous pianist Liszt, the new Abbé, is pervading Paris justnow, and is, I think, very pleased to be a priestly lion, taking hissuccess as a matter of course. There are a succession of dinners in hishonor, where he does ample honor to the food, and is in no way bashfulabout his appetite.

He does a great deal of beaming, he has (as some one said) "so muchcountenance."

He dined with us the other night, the Metternichs, and twenty-five otherpeople, among whom were Auber and Massenet.

In the boudoir, before dinner, he spied a manuscript which Auber hadbrought that afternoon. He took it up, looked at it, and said, "C'est trèsjoli!" and laid it down again. When we went in to dinner, and after hiscigar in the conservatory (he is a great smoker), he went to the piano andplayed the "joli" little thing of Auber's. Was that not wonderful,that he could remember it all the time during the dinner? He seemed onlyto have glanced at it, and yet he could play it like that off from memory.He is so kind and good, especially to struggling artists, trying to helpthem in every way. He seemed extraordinarily amiable that evening, for hesat down at the piano without being asked and played a great many of hiscompositions—quite an unusual thing for him to do! One has generally totease and beg him, and then he refuses. But I think, when he heardMassenet improvising at one of the pianos he was inspired, and he puthimself at the other (we have two grand pianos), and they played divinely,both of them improvising. He is by far the finest pianist I have everheard, and has a very seductive way of looking at you while playing, as ifhe was only playing for you, and when he smiles you simply go to pieces. Idon't wonder he is such a lady-killer, and that no woman can resist him;even my father-in-law stayed in the salon, being completely hypnotized byLiszt, who ought to consider this as one of his greatest triumphs, if heonly knew.

I sang some of Massenet's songs, accompanied, of course, by Massenet.Liszt was most attentive and most enthusiastic. He said Massenet had agreat future, and he complimented me on my singing, especially my phrasingand expression.

I wonder if the story be true that he was engaged to be married toPrincess Wittgenstein, and on the day of the wedding, when the bridal-dress was ready to be put on, she got a letter from her fiancé (can anyone imagine Liszt as a fiancé) saying that he had taken holy orders thatvery morning.

They say that she bore it very well and wrote a sweet letter to him. Itsounds rather unnatural; but one can believe anything from a person whowas under Liszt's influence. He has the most wonderful magnetism. Hisappearance is certainly original as you see him in his soutane, hislong hair, and his numerous moles, that stand out in profile, whicheverway he turns his broad face.

But one forgets everything when one hears him play. He is now fifty-fiveyears old. I invited him to go to the Conservatoire with me in the boxwhich Auber had given me for last Sunday's concert. I inclose his letterof acceptance. (See page 164.)

Auber often gives me his box, which holds six people, and I have thepleasure of making four people happy. Auber sits in the back and generallydozes. We are all crowded together like sardines. Auber, being thedirector of the Conservatoire, has, of course, the best box, except theImperial one, which is always empty.

The orchestra played Wagner's overture to "Tannhäuser." The applause wasnot as enthusiastic as Liszt thought it ought to be, so he stood up in thebox, and with his great hands clapped so violently that the whole audienceturned toward him, and, recognizing him (indeed, it would have beendifficult not to recognize him, such a striking figure as he is), beganclapping their hands for him. He cried, "Bis!" And the audience in chorusshouted, "Bis!" And the orchestra repeated the whole overture. Then theaudience turned again to Liszt and screamed, "Vive Liszt!"

[Illustration: FAC-SIMILE OF LISZT LETTER

Madame,

Permettez-moi de venir vous remercier demain au Conservatoire de votregracieuse invitation dont je serai charmé de profiter.

Mille respectueux hommages,

F. Listz

Dimanche matin.]

Auber said such a thing had never been seen or heard before in the annalsof these severe and classical concerts. People quite lost their heads, andAuber, being afraid that there would be a demonstration at the sortie,advised us to leave before the end.

I think Liszt was very pleased with his afternoon.

The sovereigns are working themselves to death, and almost killing theirattendants. Prince Radzivill said, speaking of the King of Prussia: "Iwould have liked him better if he had stayed at home. He has to be readyevery morning at half-past eight, and is often up till three in themorning." Radzivill and the others not only have to go to all the balls,but they must attend all the various civil, military, and charitablefunctions, and then the Exposition takes a lot of time and energy.

Prince Umberto is here from Italy. When Princess Metternich asked him howlong he was going to stay he answered, with a toss of his head towardItaly, "Cela dépend des circonstances. Les affaires vont très mal là-bas."

Aunt M—— says she wishes you had been at a matinée which BaronessNathaniel Rothschild gave this afternoon at her beautiful new palace inthe Faubourg St.-Honoré. At the entrance there were ten servants ingorgeous livery, and a huissier who rattled his mace down on thepavement as each guest passed. There was, besides all the élite of Paris,an Archduke of Austria. I sang the "Ave Maria" of Gounod, accompanied byMadame Norman Neruda, an Austrian violiniste, the best woman violinist inthe world. Baroness Rothschild played the piano part.

PARIS, May 29, 1867.

DEAR M.,—The Metternichs' big ball last night was a splendid affair, thefinest of the many fine balls. We were invited for ten o'clock, and abouthalf-past ten every one was there.

The Emperor and Empress came at eleven o'clock. Waldteufel, with fullorchestra, was already playing in the ballroom of the embassy, which wasbeautifully decorated. At twelve o'clock the doors, or rather all thewindows that had been made into doors, were opened into the new ballroom,which the Princess Metternich, with her wonderful taste and the help ofMonsieur Alphand, had constructed in the garden, and which had transformedthe embassy into a thousand-and-one-nights' palace.

The ballroom was a marvel; the walls were hung with lilac and pink satin,and the immense chandelier was one mass of candles and flowers; from eachpanel in the room there were suspended baskets of flowers and plants, andbetween the panels were mirrors which reflected the thousands of candles.

One would never have recognized the garden; it was transformed into agreen glade; all the paths were covered with fresh grass sod, making itlook like a vast lawn; clusters of plants and palms seemed to be growingeverywhere, as if native to the soil; flower-beds by the hundreds;mysterious grottos loomed out of the background, and wonderful vistas witha cleverly painted perspective. At the same moment that their Majestiesentered this wonderful ballroom, which no one had dreamed of, the famousJohann Strauss, brought from Vienna especially for this occasion, stoodwaiting with uplifted baton and struck up the "Blue Danube," heard for thefirst time in Paris.

When their Majesties approached the huge plate-glass window opening intothe garden a full-fledged cascade fell over the stucco rocks, and powerfulBengal lights, red and green, made a most magical effect: the water lookedlike a torrent of fiery lava en miniature. It was thrilling.

No one thought of dancing; every one wanted to listen to the waltz. Andhow Strauss played it!… With what fire and entrain! We had thoughtWaldteufel perfect; but when you heard Strauss you said to yourself youhad never heard a waltz before. The musicians were partly hidden bygigantic palmettos, plants, and pots of flowers arranged in the mostattractive way. But he!—Johann Strauss!—stood well in front, lookingvery handsome, very Austrian, and very pleased with himself.

Then came the quadrille d'honneur. The Emperor danced with the Queen of
Belgium, the Crown Prince of Prussia with the Empress, the King of Belgium
with the Princess Mathilde, the Prince Leuchtenberg with the Princess
Metternich.

The cotillon was led by Count Deym and Count Bergen, and they led it toperfection; there was not a hitch anywhere. Every one was animated andgay; certainly the music was inspiring enough to have made an Egyptianmummy get out of his sarcophagus and caper about. I danced with a GermanDurchlaucht, who, though far in the sear and yellow leaf, danced like aschool-boy, standing for hours with his arm around my waist beforeventuring (he could only start when the tune commenced), counting one—two—three under his breath, which made me, his partner, feel like aperfect fool. When at last he made up his mind to start nothing short ofan earthquake could have stopped him. He hunched up his shoulders to hisears, arched his leg like a prancing horse, and off we went on our wildcareer, lurching into every couple on the floor, and bumping into all theoutsiders. When we were not careering together, he sat glued to his chair,refusing to dance. If any lady came up with a favor he would say, "I am alittle out of breath; I will come and fetch you later." And then he wouldput the favor in his pocket and never go near her. He seized everything inthe way of favors that came his way; some he gave to me, and the rest hetook home to his small children.

I was glad, all the same, to have him for a partner, as, being aDurchlaucht, he was entitled to a seat in the front row, and I preferredprancing about with my hochgeboren high-stepper to having to take a backseat in the third row with a minor geboren. After my partner and I hadbounded about and butted into every living thing on the floor I broughthim to anchor near his chair by clutching his Golden Fleece chain whichhung around his neck. I felt like singing Tennyson's "Home I brought mywarrior (half) dead." He was puffing and blowing, the perspiration glazinghis face, his yellow hair matted on his forehead, and his mustaches allout of kilter.

I really felt sorry for him, and wondered why he exerted himself so much,when he could have been quietly seated watching others, or, better still,at home in bed.

The supper was served at one o'clock. Their Majesties the King and Queenof Belgium, Prince Alfred, the Prince and Princess of Prussia, the Princeof Saxe-Weimar, and all the other gros bonnets—too many to write about—went up-stairs through an avenue of plants and palms to a salon arrangedespecially for them where there were two large tables. The Emperorpresided at one and the Empress at the other. Besides the salle à mangerand some smaller salons, two enormous tents were put up in the garden,which contained numerous tables, holding about ten people each, andlighted by masses of candles and festooned with bright-colored Chineselanterns. Prince Metternich told me later that the candles were replacedthree times during the evening.

The favors for the cotillon were very pretty, most of them brought fromVienna. One of the prettiest was fans of gray wood with "Ambassaded'Autriche, 28th May, 1867," painted in blue forget-me-nots.

We danced "till morning did appear," and it appeared only too soon. Thecotillon finished at half-past five, and the daylight poured in, making usall look ghastly, especially my sear and yellow leaf, whose children musthave wondered why papa kam so spät nach hause.

PARIS, 1867.

Last week, in the beautiful palace built by Egypt for the Exposition,there was arranged a sort of entertainment for the Viceroy, to which wewere invited with the Prince and Princess Metternich. This palace is alarge, square, white building of oriental ornamentation and architecture,with a courtyard in the center, where we were received by the Khedive andhis suite. A fountain was playing in the middle of the courtyard ofmarble, surrounded by palmettos and plants of every description. A band ofTurkish musicians were seated cross-legged in one of the corners playingon their weird instruments, and making what they seemed to think wasmusic. We sat in low basket-chairs, our feet resting on the richest oforiental rugs, and admired the graceful movements of the dancing-girls,who had not more space than an ordinary square rug to dance upon. Therewere also some jugglers, who performed the most marvelous andincomprehensible tricks with only an apparently transparent basket, fromwhich they produced every imaginable object.

Coffee à la Turque was served in small cups with their silver filigreeundercup, and Turkish paste flavored with attar of roses, and nauseatinglysweet, was passed about, with a glass of water to wash it down. Alsocigarettes of every description were lavishly strewn on all the littletables, and hovering about us all the time were the thin-legged, turbanedblack menials with baggy silk trousers and bright silk sashes.

Everything was so Oriental that, had I stayed there a little longer, Ishould not have been surprised to see myself sitting cross-legged on adivan smoking a narghile. I said as much as this to the Khedive, whosaid, in his funny pigeon-French-English, "Alas! Were it so!"

I cast my eyes down and put on my sainte-ni-touche air, which at times Ican assume, and as I looked at his Highness's dusky suite, who did notlook over and above immaculate, in spite of the Mussulman's Mussulmaniafor washing, I thanked my stars that it "were not so."

The interpreter who was on duty said to Prince Metternich: "Mussulmansdrink no wine, nor does the Prophet allow them to eat off silver.Therefore, to ease our consciences" (he said, mettre nos consciences àcouvert), "we tell them that the silver plates on which they eat areiron plated with silver. They think the forks are also iron, otherwisethey would eat with their fingers."

The interpreter added that Mussulmans did not think the Parisiannewspapers very interesting, because they contained so few crimes and nomurders worth mentioning. What an insight this gives of the condition oftheir country and the tenor of their papers!

We took our leave of the amiable Khedive, who expressed the hope that wewould soon meet again.

Before his departure from Paris there came a package with the card of oneof his gentlemen, begging me, de la part de Monseigneur, to accept the"accompanying souvenir." The package contained two enameled braceletsof the finest oriental work in red-and-green, studded with emeralds. Hesent an equally gorgeous brooch to the Princess Metternich.

PARIS, June, 1867.

DEAR M.,—I must write you about something amusing which happened to-day.Prince Oscar was most desirous of seeing Delsarte, having heard him somuch spoken of. I promised to try to arrange an interview, and wrote toDelsarte to ask him to come to meet the Prince at our house. I receivedthis characteristic answer, "I have no time to make visits. If hisHighness will come to see me I shall be pleased," and mentioned a day andan hour. Prince Oscar, Monsieur Dué, the Swedish secretary, MademoiselleW——, and I went at the appointed time, mounted Delsarte's tiresomestairs, and waited patiently in his salon while he finished a lesson.

Monsieur Dué was very indignant at this sans-gêne, and apologized forDelsarte's want of courtesy; but the Prince did not mind, and occupiedhimself with looking at Delsarte's old poetry-books and albums.

Finally Delsarte entered and graciously received his royal visitor. ThePrince was most affable and listened to Delsarte's fantastic theories,pretending to be interested in the explanation of the cartoons, and beganto discuss the art of teaching, which exasperated Delsarte to the verge ofimpoliteness.

Prince Oscar offered to sing a Swedish song, a very simple peasant song,which he sang very well, I thought. The Swedish language is lovely forsinging, almost as good as Italian. We looked for some words of praise;but Delsarte, adopting regency manners, which he can on occasions, said,in a most insinuating voice: "Your Highness is destined to become a king,one of these days. Is it not so?"

"Yes," answered the Prince, wondering what was coming next.

"You will have great responsibilities and a great deal to occupy yourmind?"

"Without doubt."

"You will not have time to devote yourself to art?"

"I fear not."

"Eh bien!" said Delsarte, and we expected pearls to drop from his mouth,"eh bien! If ever I am fortunate enough to visit your country, I hopeyou will allow me to pay my most humble respects to you."

"How horribly impolite," said the indignant Monsieur Dué. "He ought tohave his ears boxed!"

Prince Oscar took it quite kindly, and, giving Delsarte a clap on his backwhich I am sure made his shoulders twinge, said: "You are right; I shallhave other things to think of. There"—pointing to diagram six on thewall, depicting horror, with open mouth and gaping eyes—"is theexpression I shall have when I think of music and music-teachers."

Delsarte, feeling that he had overstepped the mark, said, "Perhaps, mon
Prince, you will sing something in French for me."

Prince Oscar, drawing himself up his whole six feet and four, glanced downat little Delsarte and said, "Mon cher Monsieur, have you ever readthe English poets?"

Delsarte looked unutterable things; I blushed for my teacher.

"When I come again to Paris," the Prince continued, "I will come to seeyou. Adieu!" and left without further ceremony.

We followed him down the slippery stairs in silence.

Prince Oscar thought this little episode a great joke, and repeated it tomany people.

That same evening there was a soirée musicale given for him by theMinister of Foreign Affairs (Marquis de Moustier) The Prince was begged tosing, which he did three or four times. Every one was delighted to hearthe Swedish songs. Ambroise Thomas, who was there, said that he thoughtthey were exquisite, especially the peasant song, which he had introducedinto his new opera of "Hamlet." The Prince and I sang the duet, "I Rosensduft." He was the lion of the evening, and I think that he was verypleased. I hoped that he had forgotten the unpleasant incident of themorning and Delsarte, of whom Monsieur Dué cleverly remarked, "Qui s'yfrotte s'y pique—."

PARIS, July, 1867.

The distribution of prizes for the Exposition took place last Thursday atthe Palais de l'Industrie. It was a magnificent affair and a very hot one.You may imagine what the heat and glare must have been at two o'clock inthe afternoon on a hot July day. I was glad that I was not old andwrinkled, for every imperfection shone with magnified intensity.

There was a vast platform erected in the middle of the building, which wascovered with a red carpet, and over which hung an enormous canopy of redvelvet and curtains of velvet with the eagle of Napoleon. The Emperor andEmpress sat, of course, in the center, and on each side were the foreignsovereigns; behind them were their suites and the Imperial family. Thediplomatic corps had their places on the right of the tribune.

The gentlemen, splendid in their gala uniforms, were covered withdecorations, and all the ladies present were in grande toilette andlow-necked, and displayed every jewel they possessed.

The building, huge as it was, was packed full, every available seatoccupied.

The Prince Imperial distributed the prizes. He looked very dignified whenhe handed the victors their different medals, accompanying each gift withhis sweet and winning smile.

When Count Zichy, of Hungary, mounted the steps of the throne to receivehis medal (he got a prize for his Hungarian wines) there was a generalmurmur of admiration, and I must say that he did look gorgeous in hisnational costume, which is a most striking one. He had on all his famousturquoises. His mantle and coat underneath, and everything except his top-boots, were encrusted with turquoises, some of them as big as hen's eggs.They say, when he appears on a gala occasion in his country, his horse'strappings and saddle are covered with turquoises.

The Sultan sat on the right of the Empress. You never saw anything half assplendid! A shopful of jewelry could not compare to him. He had acollier of pearls which might have made a Cleopatra green with jealousy.He had an enormous diamond which held the high aigrette in place on hisfez and the Great Mogul (I was so told) fastened on his breast. Hiscostume was magnificent, and his sabre—which I suppose has cut off a heador so—was a blaze of jewels. He was the point de mire of all eyes;especially when the rays of the sun caught the rays of his diamonds heblazed like the sun itself. The sun did all it could in the way of blazingthat day. I know that I never felt anything like the heat in that gigantichot-house, the sun pouring through each pane of glass and nothing toprotect one against it. I felt like an exotic flower unfolding its petals.

It was a very pretty little scene, and I think that every one wasimpressed when the Prince Imperial went toward the King of Holland to handhim a medal (probably for Dutch cheese). The tall, stately King rose fromhis seat, and on receiving it bowed deeply with great ceremony. The Princemade a respectful and graceful bow in response, then the King stooped downand kissed his cheek.

I was tremendously interested when the American exhibitors came forward;there were many of them, quite a procession. They looked verydistinguished in their simple dress-coats, without any decorations. I wasso glad.

When it was all over it was delightful to get out into the fresh air, evenif we had to stand and wait patiently about like Mary's little lamb untilthe carriage did appear, for we had either to wait or to worm our way,risking horses' tails and hoofs through the surging crowd of bedecked menand women, who were all clamoring for their servants and carriages.

The coachmen were swearing and shouting as only French coachmen can do onsuch occasions as this. The line of carriages reached almost the whole waydown the Champs Élysées. We finally did find ours, and I was glad to seatmyself in it. I had had the forethought to put my hat and mantle in, as weintended to drive out to Petit Val for dinner. I put my hat over my tiaraand my mantle on my bare shoulders, and enjoyed driving through the shadystreets.

Prince Metternich came out here the other day, I had not seen him sincethe tragic death of Emperor Maximilian in Mexico. I never would havebelieved that he could be so affected as he seemed to be by this. He criedlike a baby when he told us of the Emperor's last days, of his courage andfortitude. It seems that, just as he was going to be shot, he went to eachof the men and gave them a twenty-franc gold piece, and said, "I beg youto shoot straight at my heart."

How dreadful it must have been!

Prince Metternich was most indignant at Rochefort, and says he can neverforgive him because, in an article in La Lanterne, he called the royalmartyr "the Archdupe." Auber said:

"You must not forget that Rochefort would rather sell his soul than losean occasion to make a clever remark."

"Yes, I know," moaned the Prince. "But how can one be so cruel?"

"C'est un mauvais drôle," Auber answered (don't think Auber meant thatRochefort was droll; on the contrary, this is a neat way that the Frenchhave of calling a man the worst kind of a scamp), and added,"Rochefort's brains are made of pétards," which is the French forfirecrackers.

Auber told many anecdotes. I fancy he wanted to cheer Prince Metternich upa little. One of them was that, on taking leave of the Emperor, the Shahhad said:

"Sire, your Paris is wonderful, your palaces splendid, and your horsesmagnificent, but," waving his hand toward the mature but noble damesd'honneur with an expression of disapproval, "you must change allthat." Imagine what their feelings would have been had they heard him.

PARIS, August, 1867.

DEAR M.,—I thought there would be a little rest for me after thedistribution of prizes and before going to Dinard; but repose is a thing,it seems, that I am destined never to get.

Monday morning I received a letter from Princess Metternich saying thatthe Minister of Foreign Affairs had sent her his box for that evening, tohear Schneider in "La Belle Hélène," adding that Cora Pearl was to appearas Cupidon as an extra attraction, and asked if we would dine with themfirst, and go afterward to the theater.

I could not resist an invitation from these two delightful people,therefore we drove into Paris and reached the embassy at half-past six,the hour named for dinner.

Prince Metternich told us that he had had a visit in the afternoon fromMonsieur Dué, the Swedish secretary, who had been on the verge ofdesperation on account of his not having been able to secure a suitablebox for King Charles XIV. of Sweden, who arrived last night to spend a fewdays here. He wished to see Schneider in "La Belle Hélène." Monsieur Duéhad gone to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and suggested that theMinister offer his box; but that had already been given to theMetternichs. When Prince Metternich was informed of this he did nothesitate to place the box in question at the King's disposal; but, not todisappoint the Princess and me, he had taken an ordinary box opposite. TheKing was already in his loge when we arrived. He is a large, handsomeman with a full, black beard, and has a very pleasant face.

Between the first and second acts Monsieur Dué came to Prince Metternichand told him that the King desired to see him. Of course the Prince wentdirectly, and returned delighted with the King's affability, and to ourgreat surprise brought us a message from the King, asking us all to cometo his box and join him, and proposing to send Monsieur Dué and hisgentleman-in-waiting to take our places in our box.

We accepted with pleasure, and passed the rest of the evening in thecharming society of the most amiable of kings. He said to me that "Oscar,"as he called his brother (Prince Oscar, the hereditary Prince), had spokenabout me and our singing the duet written by his brother, Prince Gustave,and asked how I managed about the Swedish words. I replied that PrinceOscar had taught them to me during the dinner preceding the singing.

"Could you understand the words?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "I only know that it was something about London and
Emma."

The King laughed most heartily, and said, "I shall tell that to Oscar when
I go home, and he will see how well you profited by his lessons."

We were all immensely amused at Cora Pearl's appearance; it was her debutas an actress. I never saw any one look so sheepish as she did, in spiteof her paint and powder and beautiful legs. She wore high-heeled slippers,so high that she could hardly walk, which made her even more awkward thanshe naturally was. She only had a few lines to sing, and this she did sobadly that people nearly hissed her.

She was evidently engaged as a drawing-card; but the only thing she drewwas ridicule on herself.

During the second act Lord Lyons came into the box. He had known the Kingbefore, and, having heard from the Minister of Foreign Affairs that theKing was at the theater, went there to pay his respects. The King,noticing that he had a decoration on, said in French: "Please take thatoff; I am here incognito. To-morrow I shall be official; then you can putit on." So Lord Lyons took off his star and put it in his pocket. Hewanted to go after the second act, but the King said: "Monsieur Dué hasarranged a supper for us at La Maison d'Or. You must come also." Ofcourse Lord Lyons did not refuse.

Monsieur Dué left the box in advance of the rest of us, in order toarrange everything before the King's arrival. The King called to him, ashe opened the door, "Don't forget the écrevisses à la Bordelaise; Ihave been looking forward to them for a long time."

After the performance, with which the King was delighted (especially withHortense Schneider's song, "Dis-moi, Vénus, pourquoi," etc.), we drove tothe Maison d'Or, where we found Monsieur Dué awaiting us. We asked atwhat time the carriages should come back. He said: "Not before twoo'clock. His Majesty never retires before." We were then shown into asalon, where the Princess Metternich and I were asked by the King to takeoff our hats. "It is so much more cozy," he said. So off our hats came. Wehad not been seated ten minutes when we heard some very loud talking andmuch discussion in the corridor outside. Lord Lyons, who was nearest thedoor, jumped up to see what the matter was, opened the door, and peepedout.

"Oh!" said he. "It is the Duke of Brunswick making a row; he is half-seasover!" The King turned to Monsieur Dué (the King does not speak English)and said, "What did Lord Lyons say?" Monsieur Dué's English did not govery far, but he translated into Swedish what he had understood Lord Lyonsto say.

The King seemed very puzzled and, addressing Lord Lyons, said:

"Was not the Duke of Brunswick obliged to leave England for fear of beingarrested?" Lord Lyons coughed discreetly, and the King went on: "If Iremember rightly, the Duke, who was in the royal box, shot at and killed adanseuse who was on the stage! And did he not leave England in aballoon? It always seemed such an extraordinary thing. Was it true?" LordLyons cautiously answered that people had said all that; but it was sometime ago, and added, diplomatically, that he had forgotten all thedetails.

"And I understood," said his Majesty, "that he can never go back thereagain."

"You are right. He cannot go back to England, your Majesty."

"Oh! don't Majesty me. To-night I am a simple bourgeois," the Kinginterrupted, smilingly shaking his finger. "But tell me, how can the Dukedare return there now?"

"He does not dare," repeated Lord Lyons. "He can never go back."

"But," insisted the King, "my good Monsieur Dué says that he is on his waythere at this moment."

Lord Lyons replied, "I think Monsieur Dué must be mistaken, for the Dukeis out there in the corridor making all this [I am sure it was on his lipsto say "devil of a row," but he politely said] noise."

Monsieur Dué then remarked, "Did I not hear you say that he was half wayacross the channel?"

"I certainly did not say that. What I did say was that he was 'half-seasover' which is a slang expression we use in England instead of sayingtipsy, or dans les vignes du Seigneur, so prettily put by the French."

The King laughed very much at this quid pro quo and, looking at Monsieur
Dué, said, "I thought your English more up to the mark."

The King was immediately fired with a desire to see the famous Duke whohad dared to cross the channel in a balloon rather than run the risk ofbeing shut up in prison, and we all waited with impatience to see whetherLord Lyons's persuasive powers went so far as getting the Duke to showhimself. Well, they did, and both the gentlemen came into the salon. TheDuke bowed low and did not lose his balance. In fact, for a man half-seasover, I thought he looked as if he could get to the end of his journeywithout disgrace. He said, very politely, "I am afraid I have disturbedyou, but this is the salon which has always been put aside for me everynight, and I was surprised to learn that it was occupied."

The Duke is, or rather would have been, a very handsome man if he had notsuch watery eyes and such a weak mouth; and then he wore the funniest-looking wig I ever saw. It was made out of black (the blackest) sewing-silk and plastered down over his ears. I wonder if it was a disguise, orif he thought any one would ever really take it for his own hair.

The King was very nice to him, and did not seem in the least to mind hisbeing dans les vignes. I fancy, from what Monsieur Dué said, that inSweden people are used to see their friends always in Seigneurialvineyards—they never see them anywhere else! But he exaggerates, nodoubt.

The King said to the Duke of Brunswick, "Will you not sup with us to-night?"

"I thank your Majesty, but I must crave permission to return, for I havesome ladies supping with me, including the Cupidon of to-night."

"Tell her," said the King, "if she wears such high heels she will come togrief."

"It will not be the first time," answered the Duke, with a laugh. "Butdon't ask me to say anything like that to her; she would box my ears!"Seeing the waiter making signs to him, the Duke then made a profound bowand, stroking his sewing-silk locks left us.

The universal verdict on him was Quel crétin!

We had a very pleasant supper, and a most unceremonious one, as much so asis possible where there is royalty.

The King said that he was going to be official all the next day, but thathe would like to go to the Exposition. Prince Metternich proposed a cup oftea and the delicious hot rolls they turn out at the Vienna restaurant.The King was delighted to accept, and named the hour of half past four inthe afternoon. We were also bidden, for which I was much pleased. KingCarl is the most delightful and fascinating of monarchs, and quite worthyto be his brother's brother. To-morrow he is going to be still moreofficial, for he dines at the Tuileries, and there is a gala performanceat the opera; Christine Nilsson is going to sing "Faust" with Nicolini andFaure.

To-morrow we leave for Dinard, where there will be no majesties norExposition; just plain bread and butter and Brittany cider, which is ashard as a relentless parent.

COMPIÈGNE, November 27, 1868.

When the inclosed invitation came my father-in-law wet-blanketed thewhole thing, and I was brokenhearted. The Duke de Persigny, who happenedto be in Petit Val at that moment, sympathized with me and tried to changethe paternal mind; but the paternal mind was obdurate, and all pleadingswere, alas! in vain.

MAISON DE L'EMPEREUR

Palais des Tuileries, le 2 9'bre 1868.

Premier Chambellan

Monsieur,

Par ordre de l'Empereur, j'ai l'honneur de vous prévenir que vous êtes invité, ainsi que Madame Ch. Moulton, à passer 9 jours au Palais de Compiègne, du 27 9'bre au 5 décembre.

Des voitures de la Cour vous attendront le 27, à l'arrivée à Compiègne du train partant de Paris à 2 heures 1/2 pour vous conduire au Palais.

Agréez, Monsieur, l'assurance de ma considération très distinguée.

Le Premier Chambellan, V'te de Laferrière.

Monsieur Ch. Moulton.

My father-in-law thought it cost too much—my toilettes, the necessaryoutlay, and especially the pourboires. He said that it was a lot ofmoney, and added, in his most choice French, "Le jeu [he pronounced it'jew'] ne valait pas la chandelle." He was right from his point of view,for he had none of the jeu and all of the chandelle. I pined andpouted the whole day, and considered myself the most down-trodden mortalin existence.

Imagine my delight, a few days later, to receive a second document,informing us that our names had been re-entered on the list, and that wewere expected, all the same, on the 27th to stay nine days. At the sametime there came a note from the Duke de Persigny, in which he said, "TheirMajesties desired us particularly to come." And he added: "Tell yourfather-in-law that the question of pourboires has been settled now andforever. No more pourboires to be given nor taken at Compiègne."

Then Mr. M—— gave his consent, and I was blissfully happy.

It seems that the Emperor's attention had been railed to the many verydisagreeable articles in the newspapers on the subject of the extravagantpourboires exacted at Compiègne. The Emperor was very much annoyed,and gave immediate orders to suppress this system, which had been going onfor years without his knowledge.

Last night we stayed in Paris, to be ready at half-past two thisafternoon. To describe our departure, arrival, and reception would only beto repeat what I have already written last year. Among the fifty or sixtyguests there were many who were here then. In addition there are Duked'Albe, with his daughters; Baron Beyens, the Belgian Minister; Mr.Mallet, of the English Embassy, Mr. Dué of the Swedish Legation; the poet,Prosper Mérimée; and many, of course, I do not know.

Singularly enough, we were shown into the same apartment we had before,which made us feel quite at home. We found tea, chocolate, and cakes onthe table, of which I partook with enthusiasm, and then enjoyed an hour'srest before dressing for dinner.

We met at seven o'clock in the Salle des Fêtes, the only room in thishuge chateau large enough to contain all the party here (I suppose theremust be one hundred and twenty people), for which reason it serves both asreception and ballroom.

The Empress looked superb in a gown of an exquisite shade of lilac; shewore her beautiful pearls and a tiara of diamonds and pearls. When sheapproached me she held out her hand, and said she was very glad to see me.The Emperor was kind and gracious, as usual.

The Baron Gourgaud was told to take me in to dinner, and we followed theprocession to the dining-room, passing the Cent Gardes, who looked likean avenue of blue and glittering trees. The Baron Gourgaud and I areneighbors in the country, their place, La Grange, being not far from PetitVal. His conversation is not absorbing; but as he knows he is dull he doesnot pretend to be anything else. I was thankful for this, as I felt that Idid not need to make the slightest effort to entertain him.

I cast my eyes round the table, and if I had not known that this was lasérie amusante I should never have guessed it—every one seemed sospiritless and "sans le moindre entrain," as my neighbor remarked.

No excitement this evening but the dance. Waldteufel is suppressed! Theysay that the Emperor, who has a horror of publicity in private life, wasvery displeased last year by the indiscretions and personal anecdotes, andespecially the caricatures made by Gustave Doré, which appeared in theFigaro. The Emperor vowed that no outsiders should be invited again;therefore poor Waldteufel has to pay les pots cassés, and we must makeour own music.

Looking for a substitute for Waldteufel, a clever chamberlain discoveredthe "Debain piano" (mechanical piano).

You remember I had one in my youth. How I loved it! How I used to love togrind out all the beautiful music those ugly boxes contained! And how Iused to wonder that those common wooden slides could reproduce suchperfect imitations of the real thing.

I was so glad to see one again, and envied the perspiring chamberlain, wholooked bored to extinction having to turn the crank, instead of joiningthe dance and turning the heads of the ladies. It took two of them tomanage the complexities of the piano, and as neither possessed a musicalturn of the wrist, and as neither had the remotest idea of time ormeasure, it was very hard for us poor dancers!

When one of the martyrs wanted to explain to the other what to do he wouldstop and forget to turn the crank. The dancers were thus obliged to pause,one foot in the air, not knowing when to put it down, and when they didput it down they did not fall in measure, and had to commence all overagain. This spasmodic waltzing almost made us crazy. As for me, I couldnot bear it any longer. No chariot nor horses could have kept me away fromthat piano; to feel again (after so many years) the delight of playing it!And then I wanted to show how it should be played; so I went to the pianoand took the crank out of the tired hands of the chamberlain and groundout a whole dance.

I flatter myself that the dancers enjoyed at least this one.

His Majesty walked up to the piano while I was playing and said, "But,Madame, you will tire yourself; you really must stop and let some one takeyour place."

I replied: "If your Majesty only knew what a pleasure it is for me to playthis piano! I had one like it when I was a little girl, and have neverseen one since."

"Are these pianos not something quite new?" he asked. "I was told thatthey were the latest invention."

"They may be," I answered, "the latest improvement on an old invention;but the pianos are older than I am."

"That," answered the Emperor, smilingly, "does not make them very old."

He called one of the chamberlains, and I reluctantly gave up my place. TheCount d'Amelot was summoned, and as we were about to waltz off the Emperorsaid, "If I danced, I should like to dance with you myself; but I do notdance."

"Then," I said, "I must dance without you."

He laughed: "Vous avez toujours la réplique," and stood there watching uswith those peculiar eyes of his.

I never received so many compliments on piano-playing as I did to-night.

Here is the list of my dresses (the cause of so much grumbling):

MORNING COSTUMES.
Dark-blue poplin, trimmed with plush of the same color, toque,
muff to match.
Black velvet, trimmed with braid, sable hat, sable tippet and muff.
Brown cloth, trimmed with bands of sealskin, coat, hat, muff to match.
Purple plush, trimmed with bands of pheasant feathers, coat, hat to
match.
Gray velvet, trimmed with chinchilla, chinchilla hat, muff and coat.
Green cloth (hunting costume).
Traveling suit, dark-blue cloth cloak.

EVENING DRESSES.
Light green tulle, embroidered in silver, and for my locks, what they
call une fantaisie.
White tulle, embroidered with gold wheat ears.
Light-gray satin, quite plain, with only Brussels lace flounces.
Deep pink tulle, with satin ruchings and a lovely sash of lilac
ribbon.
Black lace over white tulle, with green velvet twisted bows.
Light-blue tulle with Valenciennes.

AFTERNOON GOWNS.
Lilac faille.
Light café au lait with trimmings of the same.
Green faille faced with blue and a red Charlotte Corday sash (Worth's
last gasp).
A red faille, quite plain.
Gray faille with light-blue facings.

Do you not think there is enough to last me as long as I live?

SUNDAY, November 28th.

The mass is at ten o'clock on Sunday, and one meets in the grand salonbefore going to the chapel.

Madame de Gallifet and I, being Protestants, were not expected; but, as wewanted to go, we decided to don a black lace veil and follow the others.

The chapel is not large, but it is very richly decorated.

The Empress sat in a tribune facing the altar with a chosen few and herdames d'honneur.

The Emperor was not present.

It seemed to me that the mass was very hurried and curtailed. The chorusboys swung their censers nonchalantly, as though they were fanningthemselves; probably they were impatient for their breakfast.

The curé did not preach any sermon; he only made an exhortation againstthe pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and told us that we hadbetter be prepared for death, as it might come at any moment. This wasnothing new; any one could have said it. He advised us to have our lampstrimmed, for, when our time came we would be cut down like grass andgathered in the garners. Perhaps he meant we ought to make our hay whilethe sun was shining. I wondered to myself, if some of those old gentlemensinners who had sown so liberally would not be gathered in as oats. Thecuré was going on to say that we should not indulge too freely in the goodthings of this world; but pulled himself up in time, remembering, nodoubt, that he was going to breakfast, as he did every Sunday, at theImperial board and partake of its luxuries.

And before we knew it the mass was finished.

When we returned to the salon it was eleven o'clock, and every one wasassembled for déjeuner.

The Marquis d'Aoust happened to sit next to me at table (I say happened,but I believe he manoeuvered so as to do so), and, taking me unawaresbetween two mouthfuls of truites saumonées, decoyed me into accepting astupendous proposition of his, which was to help him to get up an operettawhich he had had the courage to compose. He said the idea had just comeinto his head; but I thought, for an impromptu idea, it was rather a ripeone, as he had brought the music with him, and had already picked outthose he thought could help, and checked them off on his lean fingers. Hesaid the operetta had one act only, which I thought was fortunate, andthat it needed only four actors, which I thought was still more fortunate.

The next thing to be done, he said, was to get the singers' consent. Ishould have said it was the first thing to be done; but he was so bubblingover with enthusiasm that he was sure every one would jump at the chanceof taking part.

He seized the first moment after their Majesties had retired to pounceupon those he had selected, and having obtained their consent he proposeda walk in the long, so-called Treille or Berceau. Napoleon I. built thiswalk, which is one thousand meters in length and reaches to the edge ofthe forest, for the Queen Marie Louise. I must say I pitied her toes ifshe walked there often on as cold a day as to-day; I know mine ached as wepaced to and fro while the Marquis explained the operetta. It was reallytoo cold to stay out-of-doors, and we turned back to the little salon,called the Salon Japonais, to finish the séance there.

"What part am I to take?" asked Prince Metternich.

As he could not be anything else, he accepted the role of prompter, andpromised all the help he could give. When I went to the Empress's tea thisafternoon I took those questions Aunt M* sent me from America. You knowthem. You have to write what your favorite virtues are, and if you werenot yourself, who you would like to be, and so forth.

I was glad to have something new and original which might amuse people.The Empress, seeing the papers in my hand, asked me what they were. I toldher that they were some questions: a new intellectual pastime justinvented in America.

"Do they invent intellectual pastimes in America?" she asked, looking atme with a smile. "I thought they only invented money-making."

"They do that, too," I replied; "but they have also invented thesequestions, which probe the mind to the marrow and unveil the soul."

She laughed and said, "Do you wish me to unveil my soul, comme cela, àl'improviste?"

I answered, "Perhaps your Majesty will look at them at your leisure. Ihardly dare to ask the Emperor; but if he would also look at them I shouldbe so happy."

"Leave them with me, and to-morrow we will see; in any case my soul is notprepared to-day."

So I left the papers with her.

It is the fashion this year for ladies to wear lockets on a black-velvetribbon around their necks. The more lockets you can collect and wear, thefiner you are. Each locket represents an event, such as a birthday, a bet,an anniversary of any kind, and so forth. Any excuse is good for thesending of a locket. The Empress had seventeen beautiful ones to-day (Icounted them). They have a rather cannibalish look, I think. Is it not inHayti (or in which country is it?) that the black citizens wear theirrivals' teeth as trophies on their black necks?

Who should offer me his arm for dinner to night but Prosper Mérimée, thelion of lions, the pampered poet, who entrances all those who listen tohim whenever he opens his lips.

He looks more like an Englishman than a Frenchman; he is quite old, and Ifancy older than he looks (he may be fifty). He is tall and dégagé, witha nice smile and pleasant eyes, though sometimes he gives you a sharp andsuspicious glance. He speaks English very well. I told him (stretchinga point) that I had never heard a foreigner speak such good English as hedid.

He replied, without a blush: "I ought to speak it well. I learned it when
I was a child." And he added, complacently, "I can even write better than
I speak."

I asked him if he could write poetry in English.

He answered: "I do not think I could. My English goes just so far and nofarther. I have what is strictly necessary, but not what is superfluous."("J'ai, le stricte nécessaire, mais pas le superflu.")

"To make rhymes," said I, "I should think one would have to know everyword in the dictionary."

"Oh!" he said, "I don't attempt rhymes; they are far beyond me."

When he talks French he is perfectly delightful. He creates the funniestwords, and gives such an original turn to his phrases that you are—atleast I was—on the qui vive not to lose anything he said. It is likelistening to a person who, improvising on the piano, makes unexpectedand subtle modulations which you hate to have escape you.

He told me he had been in correspondence with an English lady for overthirty years.

"Were you in love with her, that you wrote to her all those years?" Iinquired.

"I was in love with her letters," he replied. "They were the cleverestthings I ever read—full of wit and humor."

"Was she in love with you or only with your letters?" I was tactlessenough to ask.

"How can you ask?" he said. I wondered myself how I could have asked soindiscreet a question.

"Did she write in English, and did you write in French?"

"Yes, she wrote in English," he answered, and looked bored.

"Is she dead?" I asked, getting bolder and bolder; but he would not talkany more about this clever lady, and we drifted into other channels ofconversation. Too bad! I would have liked to have known if the lady wasstill living.

I wish I could remember all the pearls which fell from his lips; but alas!one cannot, like Cleopatra, digest pearls. But I do remember one thing hesaid, which was, "If I should define the difference between men and women,I should say, 'Que les hommes valent plus, mais que les femmes valentmieux.'"

I wondered if this was one of the pearls he let drop in his letters to thewonderful English bas-bleu.

In the evening we danced to the waltzes of the Debain, and were obliged totread a very spasmodic measure. The Prince Imperial asked me for a polka,and I had to clutch his shoulder with one hand and beat time with theother on his arm to keep any kind of rhythm in his evolutions. It is niceto see him circulating about and chatting with all the ladies.

November 29th.

A message came to my room this morning, to the effect that I was to sitnext to the Emperor. I suppose they thought it best to let me know intime, in case I should go wandering off sight-seeing, like last year, butno danger! Once caught, twice warned, as the saying is.

Therefore, when we descended to the grand salon, I knew what my fate wasto be. The Due de Sesto, who had recently married the widow of the Duc deMorny, gave me his arm and deposited me at the side of his Majesty.

The Emperor was in the most delightful spirits, and full of bonhomie andfun. Glancing across the table at a certain diplomat (Baron F——), hesaid, "I never knew a person more impervious to a joke than that gentlemanis." And then he went on to say that once he had told the Baron the oldtime-worn joke which any child can understand.

(You have heard it many times, I am sure, dear mama.)

One begins by saying, "Vous me permettez de vous tutoyer (You will permitme to use the thee and thou)?" And then one says, "Pourquoi aimes-tu lachicorée (Why dost thou like chicory)?" To which the answer is, "Parcequ'elle est amère (ta mère) (Because it is 'bitter' or 'your mother')."

But I had better tell the story in the Emperor's own language.

"The Baron was making a call upon the duch*ess de Bassano, one of theladies-in-waiting of the Empress, a severe and formal person, as you know,and in deep mourning for her mother. He wished to make himself agreeableand told her this story, saying that it was the most amusing thing he hadever heard. But he forgot to ask her permission to use the thee and thou,and said, point-blank, 'Pourquoi aimes-tu la salade?' The duch*ess did notunderstand, and he, bursting out laughing, continued, without waiting forher to speak, 'Parce qu'elle est ta mère.' The duch*ess arose, indignant.'Monsieur, I beg you cease. My poor mother died three months ago. I amstill wearing mourning for her!' With which she burst into tears and leftthe room.

"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-vousla salade?' Naturally she had not the slightest idea what he meant, and herejoined triumphantly, 'Parce qu'elle est Madame votre mère.' What annoysme beyond measure," continued the Emperor, "is that he goes on telling theanecdote, saying, 'The Emperor told it to me.'"

The Emperor laughed heartily, and I did, too. Then he told me anotheramusing thing:

At a ball at the Tuileries he said to a young American whose father he hadmet: "J'ai connu votre père en Amérique. Est-ce qu'il vit encore?" And theyoung 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 onreceiving the present his Majesty had sent him last year. I wanderedconsiderably from the truth, as, in reality, Delsarte, who is notNapoleonic 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 adark frown, But I noticed he smoked le bon tabac, all the same; andI 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 Delsartehad ever existed.

This was a perfectly delightful déjeuner, and I shall never forget it.

The numerous chamberlains were busy arranging the different amusem*nts forthe guests, putting horses, carriages, shooting, and excursions at theirdisposal; but we, unlucky ones, were in duty bound to abide by theMarquis, who had now completed his troupe to his satisfaction. He hadenticed the two young Mademoiselles Albe and two of their admirers toundertake the chorus; he was very grateful to them, as otherwise it wouldhave had to be suppressed—perhaps the best thing that could have happenedto it.

The Princess Metternich asked us to come to their salon (they have thebeautiful apartments called les appartements d'Apollon), in order thatwe could try the music with the piano which her husband had hired, asusual, for his stay at Compiègne, and which he had put at the dispositionof the Marquis.

The Marquis was in ecstasy, and capered about to collect us, and at lastwe found ourselves stranded with the manuscript and its master, who wasoverjoyed 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. Myheart sank when I heard it, it was worse than I thought, and the plot waseven worse than the music—naïf and banal beyond words.

A lord of the manor (Vicomte Vaufreland, basso) makes love to a humblevillage maiden (myself, soprano); the lady of the manor (Madame Conneau,contralto) becomes jealous and makes a scene with her husband; the friendand adviser (Count d'Espeuilles, tenor) steps in and takes his friend'spart and kindly says that it was he who had loved the village maiden. Thewife is satisfied, and everything ends beautifully.

It would be very uphill work for the poor Marquis and I wondered if hewould really have the patience to go on with it, after realizing howunmusical the men were. D'Espeuilles stood behind the Marquis's bald headand reached over to put his finger on the note he wanted to sing, and thenbanged on that, until, after singing every note in the scale, he finallyfixed it in his brain.

Could anything be more despairing?

Our next thought naturally was our costumes.

The operetta was laid in the time of Louis XV.

Would we be able to find anything in the various trunks in the gallerynext to the theater?

When we went there we found everything we did not want—costumes, odds andends of all sorts, which belonged to all other periods than Louis XV. Thecontents of the trunks were in a very chaotic state; each article whichonce had formed one of a complete costume was without its better half; theunprincipled things had meandered off and got mixed up in other sets.

To be sure, there was a Louis XV. coat, with embroidered pockets andsatin-lined coat-tails, but nothing more suitable for culottes could befound than a pair of red-plush breeches, trimmed with lace (I think onecalls them "trunk hose"), of Henry II.'s time.

When they were urged upon the Vicomte, he absolutely refused them, sayinghe would not mix up epochs like that, and, after pulling over everything,he decided to send to Paris for a complete costume.

Count d'Espeuilles was less difficult to satisfy, and was contented with ablack-velvet Hamlet costume, with a plumed hat, which suited no epoch atall, but suited his style of beauty.

Madame C—— thought her maid might arrange out of a ball-dress some sortof attire; with powdered hair, paint, and patches, she could represent thelady of the manor very well. My Tyrolean dress of last year would do quitenicely for me, when my maid had put the customary bows on the traditionalapron.

We all separated, carrying our carefully written rôles under our arms, andin the worst of tempers.

Monsieur Dué was my neighbor at dinner. He is very musical, and was muchinterested in hearing about the operetta. He does not think the Marquishas any talent; neither do I! But I don't wish to give any opinion on thepoor little struggling operetta before it has lived its day, and then I amsure it will die its natural death. Monsieur Dué has composed some verypretty things for the piano, which he plays on the slightestencouragement.

Nothing else was talked of in the evening but the operetta, and the
Marquis was in the seventh heaven of delight.

Their Majesties were told of the Marquis's interesting intention. I couldsee, across the room, that the Empress knew that I was going to take part,for she looked over toward me, nodding her head and smiling at me.

There was some dancing for an hour, when one of the chamberlains came upand said to me that the Empress would be pleased if I would sing some ofmy American songs. I was delighted, and went directly into the salle demusique, and when the others had come in, I sat down at the piano andaccompanied myself in the few negro songs I knew. I sang "Suwanee River,""Shoo-fly," and "Good-by, Johnny, come back to your own chickabiddy." ThenI sang a song of Prince Metternich's, called, "Bonsoir, Marguerite," whichhe accompanied. I finished, of course, with "Beware!" which Charlesaccompanied.

The Emperor came up to me and asked, "What does chickabiddy mean?"

I answered, "'Come back soon to your own chickabiddy' means 'Reviensbientôt à ta chérie,'" which apparently satisfied him.

Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious.

The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing forhim to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, "This is for ourchickabiddy!"

Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deepreverence, and we retired to our apartments.

November 30th.

The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)—I should havesaid, "the very distinguished diplomat"—the same one the Emperor told meyesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me hisbaronial arm for déjeuner. I can't imagine why he did it, unless itwere to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. Hestruck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairsof his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt sosubdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished toproduce on me.

We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly hemuttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep tohimself), "Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog's business." ("La diplomatie est unmétier de chien.")

I ventured to ask, "Is it because one is attached to a post?"

He gave me such a withering look that I wished I had never made this sillyremark.

All the same, he unbent a little and, with a dismal twinkle in his eye,his face brightening, and launching into frivolity, said: "The Emperortold me something very funny the other day. (I knew what was coming.)He asked me why I liked salad." Turning to me he said, "Can you guess theanswer?"

I had many ready for him; but I refrained and only said, "No, what wasit?"

"Parce qu'elle était ma mère!" he replied, and laughed immoderately, untilsuch a fit of coughing set in that I thought there would not be a buttonleft on him. When he had finished exploding he said, "Did you understandthe 'choke'?"

If I had not understood the "choke," I understood the choking, and Ithought any more jokes like this would be the end of him then and there.

I answered quite seriously, "I think I would understand better, if I knewwhat sort of salad his Majesty meant."

He shook his head and said he did not think it made any difference whatsort of salad it was. And we became tombstones again.

I could hardly wait till we returned to the salon, I was so impatient totell the Emperor of the Baron's latest version.

As his Majesty was near me, talking to some lady during the cercle,
I stepped forward so as to attract his attention.

He soon moved toward me, and I, against all the rules of etiquette, wasthe first to speak.

"Your Majesty," said I, "I sat next to the Baron at breakfast and was notspared the salad problem."

"How did he have it this time?" asked the Emperor.

"This time, your Majesty, he had it that you had said he liked saladbecause it was his mother."

The Emperor burst out laughing and said, "He is hopeless."

It would seem as if Fate had chosen the Baron to be the butt of all theplaisanteries to-day.

Later in the afternoon we drove in chars-à-bancs to St. Corneille,a lovely excursion through the woods. The carriages spun along over thesmooth roads, the postilions cracked their whips and tooted their horns,the air was cold and deliciously invigorating, and we were the gayestparty imaginable. One would have thought that even the worst grumblerwould have been put in good spirits by these circ*mstances; but no! ourdistinguished diplomat was silent and sullen, resenting all fun andnonsense. No wonder that all conspired together to tease him.

At St. Corneille there are some beautiful ruins of an old abbey and an oldRoman camp. When we came to the "Fontaine des Miracles" Mr. Mallet (of theEnglish embassy) pulled out of his pocket a Baedeker and read in a lowtone to those about him what was said about the miracles of the fountain.The Marquis de Gallifet, not wishing any amusem*nt to take place withouthelping it on and adding some touches of his own, thereupon interposed ina stage whisper (evidently intended to be heard by the Baron), "The watersof this fountain are supposed to remove [then raising his voice]barrenness."

"Baroness who?" asked the diplomat, who was now all alert.

Mr. Mallet, to our amazement (who ever could have imagined him so jocose),said quite gravely, "Probably the wife of the barren fig-tree."

"Ah!" said the Baron, "I don't know them," thus snubbing all the fig-trees.

"A very old family," said Mallet, "mentioned in the Bible."

This seemed to stagger our friend, who evidently prided himself on knowingevery family worth knowing. The Marquis de Gallifet, seeing his chance,hurried to tell the story of the d'Albe family, which the crestfallenBaron drank in with open mouth and swallowed whole. As the Duke d'Albe wasthere himself, listening attentively and smiling, the story must have beentrue! The Marquis de Gallifet said, when Noah was ready to depart in theark he saw a man swimming for dear life toward the boat, waving somethingin the air. Noah called out to him:

"Don't ask to be taken in. We can't carry any more passengers, we arealready too full."

The man answered, "I don't want to be taken in; I don't care for myself;but, pray, save the papers of the family."

The Baron looked very grave, and turning to the Duke asked, in anextremely solemn tone, "Is this really true?"

"Perfectly," answered the Duke, without moving a muscle. "The saying,'Après moi le déluge,' originated in our family; but we say, 'Nousd'abord, et puis le déluge!'"

"How interesting!" said the Baron.

Then Monsieur Dué, not wishing to be outdone, said his family was as old(if not older), having taken the name of Dué from the dove [in Swedish"dué" means dove] which carried the olive-branch to the ark. By this timethe poor Baron, utterly staggered and bewildered in presence of such aconcourse of ancient nobility, did not know on which leg to stand. Howcould he and his family ever hold up their heads again?

We returned to Compiègne by St. Périne, where there was a most enchantingview, and drove straight through a long avenue and entered La courd'honneur. It was almost half-past five when we reached our rooms.

I thought I had had enough of fossils and ruins for one day, frombreakfast onward, so when old General Changarnier came to offer me his armfor dinner I said to myself, "This is the climax!"

But, on the contrary (the unexpected always arrives), he was so delightfuland genial that my heart was warmed through, which, indeed, it needed,after the ice-chest I had had for déjeuner. He did not try to raiseme to his level, but simply let himself down to mine, and talked smalltalk so youthfully that I felt we were about the same age. He was acharming man.

Monsieur de Laferrière arranged a sort of ball for this evening. There wasan unusual flutter, for everything was going to be extra fine, and we puton our prettiest dresses. Programmes with dangling pencils were lavishedon us, on which regular dances were set down—quadrilles, waltzes, polkas,and lancers.

The usual cercle was curtailed, in view of the ball.

The chamberlains, to facilitate matters, had arranged the boxes of musicfor the mechanical piano very methodically on a table, so there should beno mistakes or fumbling with the slides.

The ladies were so agitated, fearing they would not get any partners, thatthey made very transparent efforts to attract the attention of thegentlemen. One would have thought they had never been to a ball in alltheir lives. The gentlemen, just as agitated, rushed about to secure theladies, whom they could have had without the rushing on other evenings.The Empress looked exquisitely beautiful. The Emperor stood in thedoorway, smiling at this whirlwind of gaiety and animation. The PrinceImperial danced untiringly with all the ladies.

Flowers were distributed about, and, wonder of wonders! ices were servedat intervals, as if it were a real ball. My old general was chivalryitself. He even engaged a partner for the lancers, and skipped abouttelling everybody he did not know how to dance them, which wasunnecessary, as one could see for oneself later.

There are four kinds of people in society:

Those who know the lancers.

Those who don't know the lancers.

Those who know the lancers and say they don't.

Those who don't know the lancers and say they do.

My old and venerable warrior belonged to class number two, and really didnot know the lancers, but tripped about pleasantly and let others guidehim. When we came to the grande chaîne he was completely intoxicatedwith his success. Every eye was on him. Every one was occupied with hisdoings, and his alone. All the ladies were pulling him first one way andthen 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 beingpulled about and twirled in every direction, never knowing where he was orwhen he was going to stop. At last, utterly exhausted and confused, hestopped short and placed himself in the middle of the ballroom, delightedto be the center of all eyes and to make this effective finale. But noone could compare with him when he made his Louis-Quinze reverence; theyounger men had to acknowledge that he scored a point there, and he mightwell be proud of himself. All this made us very gay, and almostboisterous. Never before had the evening finished with such a burst ofmerriment, and we all retired, agreeing that the ball had been a greatsuccess, and that Monsieur de Laferrière could sleep on his laurels assoundly as we intended to sleep on our pillows.

December 1st.

Count Niewekerke offered me his arm for déjeuner this morning. He is aDutchman (Hollandais sounds better) by birth, but he lives in Paris. Ashe is the greatest authority on art there, the Emperor has made him Countand Director of the Galerie du Louvre. He is very handsome, tall, andcommanding, and has, besides other enviable qualities, the reputation ofbeing the great lady-killer par excellence.

As we stood there together the Empress passed by us. She held up herfinger warningly, saying, "Take care! Beware! He is a very dangerousperson, 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 walkedto the dining-room, and I felt as if I was being led to the altar to besacrificed like poor little Isaac. His English is very co*ckney, and he gotso mixed up with "heart" and "art" that I did not know half the timewhether he was talking of the collection of the Louvre Gallery or of hislady victims. He did not hesitate to call my attention to the presence ofsome of them at the table, which I thought was very kind of him, in case Iwas unaware of it.

He is as keen about the good things of the table as he is about art; infact, he is a great epicure. As he thought well of the menu, I will copyit 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?"

"I am, your Majesty, and, strange to say, my heart is intact."

"Wonderful!" she said, "you are an exception."

We had the choice between going to a chasse à tir (without the Emperor),and a drive to Pierrefonds.

I had enough of the chasse à tir last year, and I still see in my dreamsthose poor birds fluttering in their death-agony. Anything better thanthat!

I preferred Pierrefonds, with its gargoyles and its hard, carved chairs.

I was glad Monsieur de Niewekerke went with us, for he was moreinteresting and did not go into so many details as Viollet-le-Duc.

[Illustration: LA SALLE DES PREUX—CHÂTEAU DE PIERREFONDS]

The restoration has progressed very much since the last time we were here,though far from being completed yet. In the huge hall Niewekerke told methe statues about the chimney were portraits of the wives of the preuxchevaliers of that time.

I thought the frescos of this hall were very crude in color; but Monsieurde Niewekerke said they were excellent copies of the ancient style ofdecoration.

The castle is such a magnificent ruin one almost wishes that it was notrestored.

I would like to see it in summer, not in this season, when one perisheswith cold and longs, in spite of its beauty, to be out of it and in awarmer place.

There was a dense fog on the lake and a mist in the forest when we left,and it was dreadfully damp and cold. The postilions took a shorter cut andcarried us through La Brévière and St. Jean aux Bois.

I should think both must be charming in summer; but now—ugh!

What was my delight at the Empress's tea this afternoon to see Auber, mydear old Auber! He had been invited for dinner, and had come with theartists who are to play to-night. He looked so well and young, in spite ofhis eighty-three years. Every one admires him and loves him. He is theessence of goodness, talent, and modesty. He is writing a new opera. Fancywriting an opera at eighty-three!

I asked what the name of it was. He answered: "'Le Rêve d'Amour.' Thetitle is too youthful and the composer is too old. I am making a mistake,but what of that? It is my last!"

I said I hoped he would live many more years and write many more operas.

He shook his head, saying, "Non, non, c'est vraiment mon dernier!"

Monsieur de Lareinty said to the Empress at tea that there was an unusualamount of musical talent among her guests—a real galaxy of stars seldomto be found in amateurs.

The galaxy may have existed—but the stars! The Milky Way seen through thewrong end of an opera glass was nothing to the smallness of theirmagnitude.

The Empress caught at the idea directly, and the decree went out thatthere should be a concert tomorrow evening; not mere desultory singing,but singers and songs in regular order.

Auber said he was sorry he could not be there to applaud us. Heaccompanied us when we went to our rooms, and then he had no idea how tofind his own. After having seen him handed over successively to threedifferent valets, we left him to his fate, hoping he would arrive at hisdestination eventually. When we entered the salon for dinner Auber wasalready there. If he had not brought his own servant with him, he neverwould have been in time.

The troop of the Comédie Française played "La Joie fait Peur," by Musset.The theater was brilliantly lighted; the guests, from the environs and thefine fleur of Compiègne, filled all the boxes. The gentlemen and theofficers were in the parquet. The Court and Imperial guests sat with theirMajesties in the Imperial box. It was a magnificent sight!

Madame Favart was most touching in her part, and everybody, I think, wept.Coquelin was excellent; but I do not like him so much in his patheticrôles; his squeaky voice and nasal tones do not belong to the sentimentalstyle. After the play he gave a monologue, which was the funniest thing Iever heard, "Les Obsèques de Madame X——." The whole house was laughing,and most of all the Emperor. I could see his back shaking, and thediplomatic and apoplectic Baron condescended to explode twice.

The representation lasted till half-past ten. The artists did not changetheir toilettes, but came into the salon as they were dressed for theplay. They were received with great cordiality by their Majesties. TheChamberlain gave them each a little package containing, I suppose, avaluable souvenir from the sovereigns. A special train took them back toParis.

Auber bid me good-by, saying, "Au revoir until Paris, if you are not tooabsorbed in these grandeurs to receive a poor, insignificant bourgeoislike me."

"You can always try," I answered with a laugh. "Bon soir et bon voyage!"

December 2d.

What a day this has been! A storm of rain and hail raged all night, andwhen I looked out of the window this morning I saw everything deluged inwater. The park looked dismal; all the paths were full of puddles; thetrees were dripping with rain, and, to judge from the dark skies andthreatening clouds, it seemed as if worse was to follow and there might bethunder and lightning. On the programme for to-day there stood chasse àcourre; but of course cela tombait dans l'eau, as would have been itsnatural end anyway in this weather. None of the ladies donned their greencostumes, as even one was so sure that the day would be passed indoors.

At déjeuner I was fortunate enough to sit between Prince Metternichand the Marquis de Gallifet. Certainly I could not have two moredelightful companions, each so different and yet so entertaining. TheMarquis was very aggressive and grumpy; but very amusing.

In French one says, "On a le vin triste," or "On a le vin gai." The
Marquis has "le déjeuner grincheux (grumpy)," I think.

He began by attacking me on the English language. He said it was utterlyabsurd and illogical, and though he ought to know it, as he had an Englishwife, he felt he never could learn it.

"Apropos of to-day's weather, you say, 'It never rains but it pours'—aufond qu'est-ce que cela veut dire? 'Il ne pleut jamais, mais il pleut àverse'; cela n'a pas le sens commun—you might as well say, 'It neverpours but it rains.'"

I had to confess that it did sound senseless, and tried to explain themeaning; but he grumbled, "Why don't they say what they mean?" He told mehe was once traveling in England and put his head out of the carriagewindow to see something, and some one inside cried, "Look out!" He put hishead still farther out, when the person continued to scream, "Look out!"He answered, "I am looking out," at which a rude hand seized him by thecoat-collar and jerked him inside, saying, "Damn it, look in then!"

"How can any one conquer a language as stupid as that?"

I told him I felt humiliated to own such a language, and I ought toapologize for it, though I had not invented it and did not feelresponsible for it; but he would not listen to me.

Prince Metternich asked, "What shall we do indoors this awful day?"

I proposed tableaux; but he objected to tableaux.

Then I suggested that one might have a fancy-dress tea-party. At last,after many wild propositions, he said, "Why not charades?"

Of course he had intended charades all the time. He asked the Marquis de
Gallifet if he would help us.

"No, I won't," answered the Marquis, "but you are welcome to my wife; sheloves dressing-up and all that nonsense;" adding, "It is the only thingshe can do with success."

"But we want her to act. Can she?"

"Act!" said the amiable husband. "She can act like the devil!"

By the time we had returned to the salon the Prince had not only found agood word for a charade, but had decided in his resourceful mind all minordetails. He thought it would amuse the Prince Imperial to join us, and heasked permission of the Prince's gouverneur to allow him to do so. Thepermission was readily given.

Prince Metternich begged Vicomte Walsh to obtain the Empress's graciousconsent to honor the performance with her presence. She was very pleasedat the idea of seeing her son's début as an actor, and promised to come,and even said she would have the tea, usually served in her salon, broughtto the little theater.

Prince Metternich gave us a sketch of what he wanted us to do, and gave usgeneral instructions as to our costumes, and bade us meet again in anhour. He would see to everything else: light, heat, scenery, powder,paint, etc., all the accessories, would be ready for us. We ladies were tobe pierrettes and dancers of Louis-Quinze period; the gentlemen were torepresent the talons rouges, and to have red cloth pasted on the heelsof their low shoes. We could paint our faces and powder our hair after ourown ideas. "But, ladies, above all, do not be late," were the partingwords of the Prince.

We followed his instructions as well as we could, and reappeared in thetheater to hear the now fully matured plans of our impresario.

The Empress was seated before we were ready, Prince Metternich was so longpainting the Prince Imperial. We could hear her saying, "Allons! Allons!"clapping her hands in her eagerness for us to commence.

The word was PANTALON.

The first syllable, PAN, was represented by the Prince Imperial as astatue of Pan.

His body was visible to the waist above a pedestal. Over his flesh-coloredundershirt he wore a wreath of green leaves across his shoulders, and hishead was also covered with a wreath. He held the traditional flute beforehis mouth. No one could have recognized the delicate features of thePrince Imperial, as Prince Metternich had painted his lips very large andvery red, and had added a fantastic mustache. His eyebrows (black as ink)had an upward tilt, in true Mephistophelian style.

It was a sylvan scene. Prince Metternich had ordered from the greenhousesome orange and other trees to be moved on to the stage, which made a verypretty effect.

The Princess Metternich, in a quaint costume, was the Harlequine to herhusband's Harlequin. They made a very funny love scene, because, being manand wife, they could make all their kissing real, and so ridiculouslyloud, that one could hear it all over the theater. Every one laughed tillthey cried, and particularly as Pan was rolling his eyes about in a verycomical manner.

Her other lover (Pierrot) came in unawares; but she had time to throw ashawl over Harlequin, who put himself on all fours, thus making a bench,on which she demurely sat down. In order to throw dust in Pierrot's eyes,she took from her basket a hammer and some nuts and began cracking them(to the audience's and Pan's horror) on poor Harlequin's head, eating themwith great sang-froid.

Prince Metternich had prudently provided a wooden bowl, with which hecovered his head so that his ambassadorial skull should be spared. Pansmiled a diabolical smile, and had, of course, a great success.

TALON was the next syllable. This was a sort of pantomime. The actors weregrouped like a picture of Watteau. Count Pourtales was a dancing-masterand was really so witty, graceful, and took such artistic attitudes thathe was a revelation to every one. Prince Metternich (his bosom friend)exclaimed:

"Who would ever have thought it? How talent conceals itself!"

The whole word PANTALON was a combination of Columbines, Harlequins, andLouis-Quinze cavaliers dancing in a circle, and all talking nonsense atonce.

The statue of Pan in knickerbockers, his wreaths still on his head andshoulders, joined in the dance.

The Empress led the vociferous applause, and Prince Metternich cameforward on the stage and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are deeplyflattered at your approval. There will be a second performance before hisMajesty, the Emperor of the French, and I hope you will accord us yourpatronage."

There was great laughter at this.

Count Pourtales took me in to dinner. We were very glad to be neighbors.He was resting on his laurels, and I wanted to rest before getting mine(if I got any) this evening. We exchanged views on nervousness. He said hehad been dreadfully nervous in the afternoon. I told him I was alwaysnervous when I had to sing, and when I sang the first song I was hot andcold all over.

"Like Alboni," he said; "she has had to give up singing in opera, she hadsuch stage-frights."

We thanked each other after finishing dinner for having been kind enoughto have let the other alone.

The rain was still pouring in torrents when we returned to the salon. Inspite of the many voices, we could still hear it pattering against thewindows of the terrace. It was lucky there were some stars among us, asMonsieur de Lareinty had said, otherwise we would have seen none to-night.

At ten o'clock the "galaxy" went into the salle de musique, and theplanets began to shine. First came Baroness Gourgaud, who attacked the"Mi-bémol Polonaise," of Chopin. Their Majesties settled themselves intheir chairs with a look of heavenly resignation on their faces, which wasreflected on those of most of the guests.

However, she played beautifully, more like an artiste than an amateur. TheEmpress went forward to her, holding out her hand, which the Baroness,bowing to the ground, kissed gratefully, feeling that she had coveredherself with glory, as she really had.

Then Monsieur de V—— (our basso) sang "O Marguerite," from Faust,without the slightest voice, but with excellent intentions. Next, havingthe music under his hand, he continued and sang "Braga's Serenade," whichhe thought was more suited to his voice, though it is written, as youknow, for a soprano. He sang the girl's part in a mysterious, husky, andsepulchral voice, and the angel's part weaker and feebler than any angelever dreamed of.

I looked at the beautiful ceiling painted by Girodet, and to keep myselffrom going to sleep counted the legs of the angels, and tried to calculatehow many legs belonged to each. Monsieur de V—— said his idea was tomake the contrast very strong between the girl and the angel; he certainlysucceeded!

Monsieur Dué played some of what he calls his "Sketches." "Il est si doué(gifted)," exclaimed Princess Metternich.

Every one was pleased; so was he.

I sang "Le Rossignol," of Alabieff, in which is the cadenza Auber wrotefor me. Princess Metternich played the accompaniment.

Madame C—— (our contralto) sang "Lascia che pianga," which suited herbeautiful voice better than it did the audience's taste. Then she sang"Ah! Mon Fils," of "Le Prophète," with great effect, accompanying herself.

But this was not the kind of music to please our audience.

Count E—— (our tenor) was asked to add his Milky Way tenor to the restof the planets, but begged to be excused on the plea of a sore throat. Noone questioned this, and he was allowed to remain unheard.

Later I sang "Oh! that We Two were Maying," by Gounod, a much too serioussong; but the Empress said she thought it was the most beautiful one shehad ever heard. I think so, too. I also sang one of Massenet's, "Poèmed'Avril." They asked for "Beware!" which I sang. The Emperor came up to me(each time he gets up from his chair every one gets up and stands until hesits down again), and said, "Won't you sing the song about the shoe?"

What did he mean? I had no idea.

"The one you sang the other night," said the Emperor.

What do you think he meant?

Well, he meant "Shoo-fly!" I sang it, as he desired. I don't believe heknows yet what its true meaning is. There is an end to all things, and ourconcert came to an end at last. Their Majesties, with gracious smiles andrepeated thanks, retired, the Milky Way faded from view, and the planetswent to bed.

I know I deserved mine, and I appreciated it when I got it.

December 3d.

The chasse à courre is generally fixed for the last day of the série;but their Majesties, at the suggestion of the thoughtful Vicomte Walsh,ordered it to be changed to this afternoon, in order that the operettashould arrive at a riper stage of perfection. Would it ever be nearenough? We had never had a moment yet when we could rehearse all together.Vicomte de V——'s costume had not come from Paris, and he was borderingon brain-fever, in a state of expectancy and impatience. Neither he nord'Espeuilles knew their songs, and the chorus needed much drilling. ThePrincess Metternich put her salon at the Marquis's disposal, and he spenthalf his time teaching some of his pupils.

The days of the chasse à courre the gentlemen appear in red coats andthe ladies in green-cloth dresses. Those that had le bouton put it intheir buttonhole. You may be sure I wore mine!

All the carriages, the horses, and grooms were before the terrace at twoo'clock, and after the usual delay we drove off to the forest. TheirMajesties and the Prince Imperial were on horseback. The duch*ess de Sestoinvited me to drive with her, and in the same char-à-banc with us wereBaronne de la Poeze, Comtesse Pourtales, and four or five others. Theduch*ess looked very dainty, wrapped in her chinchilla furs. I had had solittle time to learn the talking part of my rôle that I took it with me inthe carriage, hoping to be able to study it. They all sympathized with me,as they knew the operetta was to be given to-morrow evening.

The roads were full of mud; but we splashed through them regardless ofsuch minor details as dirt Fortunately it did not rain, and the sun made afew spasmodic efforts to come out, but it was far from being the ideal dayof last year.

This chasse varies but little, and I described my first acquaintancewith it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repetition ofdetails. I fancy the route we took was the same; but I am not quite sure,for all the roads and avenues resemble one another.

Once, as we halted at an étoile, we saw a beautiful stag bound pastus, full of life and strength, with enormous horns (they said it was adix cors). Every one in the carriage stood up in their excitement tolook after it. How I wished he would escape and live his free and happylife in the forest. I hate this chasse; I hate to write about it; Ihate to be present at it. It is all so pitiful and painful to me! How canany one find pleasure in such cruel sport?

To kill a living creature, to take the life of an animal that has done youno harm, seems horrible to me. But I will say no more on this subject. Italways puts me in a bad temper, and makes me disgusted with my fellow-creatures.

We followed the other part of the cavalcade and arrived at the carrefourin time to see the death of one stag. The others saw it, but I wasoccupied with my manuscript.

There were two stags taken, two beautiful creatures that ought to havelived.

It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerfulfire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and Iwas heartily glad when we turned homeward.

Six o'clock had just struck when we drove up to the front of the Grand
Escalier, and I was able to get a little rest before dressing for dinner.

All the ladies who owned diamond crescents, or any crescent suggestive ofDiana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescenton her lovely hair.

The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for therewere some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was theCount de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but Iwas able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to theMarquis's incessant explanations.

There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the curée. It isa pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to showa good deal of talent in their playing le piano méchanique, and they canplay almost in time.

The curée was at ten o'clock. The long gallery was soon alive with aneager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyardwas filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiègne;the piqueurs waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; thegardes blew their long cors de chasse, and it was just like last year,except that on this occasion there were two stags—therefore, two sets ofentrails to be devoured.

Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboringchâteaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off tothe station, and the privileged guests retired to their apartments.

December 4th.

At ten o'clock this morning I was surprised at hearing a timid knock at mysalon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d'Aoust. He begged my pardonfor disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something heconsidered of great importance.

He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he hadnot slept all night. Would I be willing to help Count d'E—— in our duet,and sing a part of his music? Otherwise, he was sure it would never go.

I told him it would not be easy to sing tenor; but I would see at therehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him,my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that allwould go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession ofnightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, havingforgotten both words and music.

He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since Idon't know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he hadordered; but he saw that there would not be space for the eight performers(there are two scenes where we are all on the stage at once). Accordingly,he had ordered the carpenters to change it.

I ate my déjeuner sandwiched between the tenor and the basso. Werehearsed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.

The Empress went directly to the Marquis after déjeuner and said, "Weare looking forward to your operetta to-night with real pleasure, andwe are sure that it will be a great success." The Marquis was radiant.

When we met later in the theater for our first and only rehearsal we weredelighted to find there the grand piano from the salle de musique. Thecurtain rose on a very pretty garden scene, with trees on either side,green linen on the floor representing grass, a village with a church-steeple in the background, and for stage properties a garden bench and avase placed just before the footlights, so that it would not interferewith our movements, but would show us where not to fall off.

The Marquis was, of course, at the piano, and Prince Metternich, asprompter, squeezed into a prompter's box, looking wretchedlyuncomfortable. We commenced the rehearsal, which, on the whole, went offbetter than we expected.

The basso is the first to appear. He sings a melancholy song, in which hemakes known his love for the humble village maiden. His voice gets moredismal and lower as he becomes despondent, and higher and more buoyant ashis hopes rise. At the end, when he sings "Elle sera à moi," his voice,though very husky, was almost musical. Then I, as the village maiden,enter with a basket, suggestive of butter and eggs, and sing a sentimentalditty telling of my love for the friend of the lord. The music of this ismediocre beyond words. The Marquis tries to show, by a few high sopranonotes, how high my wildest flights of aspirations fly before I could everreach the subject of my love. "Mes tourments" and "le doux plaisird'aimer" get so mixed that I don't know myself what I am singing about.

The lady of the manor hears my lament, and, believing me to be in lovewith her husband, berates me in a dramatic duet. The friend and advisernow appears, and we get through an incomprehensible trio. He cannotconvince her (the lady) of the innocence of her husband. She insists uponthinking him a traitor, leaves us in a fury, and we have the floor toourselves when we sing the famous duet on account of which the Marquis hadqualms this morning. In it there is a minor phrase which is quiteintricate, and I saw that unless I came to d'E——'s rescue he could nevermanage it.

The lord and the lady reappear, while the friend and I retire in thebackground and lean up against the village steeple and whisper. The ladyis violent and the lord is indifferent. The music sounds like aneverlasting grumble, because her voice is contralto and his is bass. Thevillage maiden is called to the front, and denies everything she has beenaccused of. The husband makes amends in a phrase miles too high for hisvoice. The friend takes all the blame on his black-velvet shoulders, andsays he has loved the maiden all along. The maiden is overcome withemotion and faints for joy.

The final quartette is a sad affair, musically speaking, constructed onthe Marquis's own ideas of thoroughbass. All the singers start on the sameplane, the soprano soars heavenward, the contralto and the bass grovel intheir deepest notes, while the tenor, who ought to fill up the gap, standscounting the measures on his fingers, his eyes glued to the prompter,until he joins me and we soar together.

To use a metaphor, one might say that the contralto and bass were in thelower regions, the soprano floating in heaven, the tenor groping about onearth for his note; then we all meet on the same place we started from,which is the signal for the chorus to unite their forces with ours.

The Marquis was dreadfully put out with me because I refused to faint onthe stage (in the text it says Rosette tombe évanouie). He said nothingwas easier. I had only to put my arms out to break the fall and—fall. Hethought that with a little practice between the afternoon and the eveningI should be able to do it.

I could see myself covered with bruises tumbling about over sofas andchairs, and I could see the bewilderment of any one coming into my roomwhile I was practising this part of my rôle.

I said, "I absolutely refuse to risk my neck." He thought it was veryselfish of me. One would have thought that the whole success of theoperetta depended on my fainting. He said he could show me how to fallwithout hurting myself, and in trying to do so he tripped over the vaseand bumped his head against the garden bench. Fortunately he did notdamage himself, but the argument ended then and there.

At half-past four my maid came to the theater to tell me that the Empressexpected me to tea. I had thought she would, as she had promised theanswers to those questions; and so it was. As soon as I appeared (I hadhad time to change my dress) the Empress called me to her and said:

"Here are the answers to your American soul-probing questions! These aremine (giving me hers) and here are the Emperor's. He was very pleased towrite them, as it was you who asked him; besides, I think they amused him.He spent a long time pondering over each answer. You see," she added, withher lovely smile, "nous vous aimons bien."

I was very glad to have the answers. I copy them for you.

A quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? À la gratitude.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Tacite.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Chercher la solution de problèmes insolubles.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Mon petit fils.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire détestez-vous le plus? Le Connétable
de Bourbon.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? Pour celles dont
je profite.

NAPOLÉON LOUIS.

A quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? Au dévouement.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Calderon, Byron, Shakespeare.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire le bien.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Ce que je suis.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire détestez-vous le plus? Lopez.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? Pour celles que la passion excuse.

EUGÉNIE.

I add the answers of Prosper Mérimée:

À quelle qualité donnez-vous la préférence? La persévérance.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Pr. Mérimée.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire des châteaux en Espagne.

Qui voudriez-vous être? Napoléon III.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire détestez-vous le plus? Mazarin.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? La gourmandise.

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE.

I think the Emperor's are very clever.

"And the operetta?" inquired the Empress.

"I hope your Majesties will be indulgent," I replied.

Monsieur de Laferrière was next to me at dinner. He was as much interestedin the operetta as other people seemed to be. I took advantage of hisbeing my neighbor to ask him to manage it so that we could leave the salonbefore the cercle commenced, as we had to dress, and if any of us werelate I dared not think what the effect would be on the nervous Marquis.

The Emperor raised his glass during dinner, though I sat very far down thetable. I suppose he wanted to inspire me with hope and courage.

Monsieur de Laferrière arranged everything for us most amiably. We rushedoff to our rooms to dress. I, for one, was not long over my toilette, and,followed by my maid, hurried through the long corridors to the theater.

We were all there except Monsieur de V——, who was no doubt stillpottering over his raiment. The artist he had ordered from Paris wasalready there, brush in hand, ready to paint us. The result was verysatisfactory. When we looked at ourselves in the glass we wondered why oneshould not be beautiful every day with so simple an art.

We were rather taken back when Monsieur d'Espeuilles appeared in a wig anda false mustache; but he hastened to say there was nothing like beingdisguised to put one at one's ease. The gentlemen of the chorus, notwilling to go to any extra expense, had culottes courtes and whitestockings; the ladies had tried to be more in harmony, but they thoughtthat with rakes, spades, and basket they had quite enough couleurlocale.

The chamberlain came to ask whether their Majesties should come now.Prince Metternich answered that we were waiting for them, A tedious delayoccurred before the audience had settled into their places in accordancewith their rank, to the great annoyance of Prince Metternich, shut up inthe small prompter's box, and the Marquis d'Aoust, fidgeting at the piano,and driving us almost to distraction by his repeated questions andexhortations: "Do you think you know your part? Don't forget to"—etc.

At last! at last! No retreating now, Coûte que coûte! we must take inthe plank and embark on our shaky craft.

The Marquis attacked the overture by playing some vigorous arpeggios andpompous chords. The curtains were drawn aside and the lord of the manorentered. After his monologue, which he did very well, he hesitated amoment. This agitated the Marquis to such a degree that he stood up andwaved his hand as a signal to him to commence his song, and gave him thenote on the piano. Monsieur de V—— started in all right and sang hissong with due sentiment, and very well. I even think as far back as thesixth row of seats they were conscious that he was singing. His acting andgestures were faultless. All Frenchmen can act.

I thought, when I came in, the public was chilly, and I felt cold shiversrunning down my back. My courage was oozing out of me, and when the lordof the manor said to me, "Rosette, que fais-tu ici?" and I had to answer,"Ce que je fais, Monsieur; mais vous voyez bien, je ne fais rien," Ithought I should die of fright and collapse on the spot. However, I pulledmyself together and began my silly little song.

The moment I began to sing I felt at ease, and I flatter myself I gave acertain glaze to the emptiness of the music. Madame Conneau sang herdramatic aria beautifully, and created quite a furore. I only wish themusic had been more worthy of her. The love duet between the friend andmyself was, much to my surprise, a great success. It was encored, and wesang it again.

When we came to the minor passage (the stumbling-block) the Marquis, whowas perspiring at every pore in his dread that I should not hit the rightnote, pounded it on the piano loud enough to be heard all over thetheater. I gave him a withering look, which he pretended not to see.Perhaps he did not, for his attention, like mine, was startled by seeingthe false mustache of Monsieur d'Espeuilles ungluing and threatening todrop into his mouth. The Marquis began wagging his head and making franticsigns. Monsieur d'Espeuilles was horribly confused, and I feared for thesuccess of our da capo; but he patted the now limp offender back onhis lip, and we continued the duet. During the applause the Marquis tookthe occasion to wipe the perspiration from his bald head.

In spite of our qualms the final quartette was not so bad after all. Whenit was time for me to come down from my upward flight in order to help thetenor, the Marquis again waved his right hand in the air to attract myattention, while he thundered a tremolo with his left, to keep theaccompaniment going until he was sure that everything was right. Thechorus came on in due order, and flourished their rakes and spades asthough they were waving flags, in participation of the joy and gladness ofthe reconciliation. There was one moment of genuine hilarity, when thelittle fox-terrier belonging to the Empress's niece rushed on to the stageto join his mistress, who, with great sang-froid, picked him up andwent on singing, to the immense amusem*nt of the audience.

It was suffocatingly hot in the little theater, and we were glad to thinkthat we had arrived at the end of our perilous journey. The red on ourcheeks was getting paler; the powder was becoming paste; the black on theeyebrowless actors began to run down their cheeks; Monsieur d'Espeuilles'swig and mustache were all on one side.

All these details mattered little, now that the end had come, and theperformance had concluded with great éclat.

The happy Marquis (though I think he aged ten years that hour at thepiano) was radiant with his success. Every emotion had swept over him:ambition, vanity, hope, pride, forbearance, patience, long-suffering.

The curtain fell amid great applause, as spontaneous as it was persistentand, I hope, genuine.

We stayed in our costumes for the tea in the Emperor's salon.

Both their Majesties complimented the Marquis, and thanked us allseparately for the pleasure they had had and the trouble we had givenourselves. The Emperor said to me, "Vous vous êtes surpassée ce soir." Icourtesied and asked him what he thought of the music.

He hesitated before answering. "I don't know much about music; but itseems to me, as Rossini said of the music of Wagner: 'Il y a de jolismoments, mais de mauvais quarts d'heures!' All the same, it was verypretty."

Every one praised the Marquis to the skies, and he was really in theseventh heaven of delight.

I am only afraid his head will be turned, and that he will write anotherchef-d'oeuvre.

I was glad when their Majesties bade us good night, for I was completelyexhausted.

PARIS, December 5th.

It seems nice, all the same, to be at home again. We arrived in Paris atsix o'clock, and at half-past seven I was in my bed, completely worn out.However, I must tell you how our visit ended the day before yesterday. Wasit only the day before yesterday? It seems months ago. At déjeuner thePrincess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and the Empress'sbrother-in-law, Duke d'Albe, gave me his avant-le-déluge arm, and put meon the left of his Majesty.

I thought the Emperor looked tired and ill, and I noticed he frequentlyput his hand on his back, as if he was in pain. The Princess Metternichengrossed the Emperor's attention. She is so witty and lively that everyone must listen when she talks. All the same, the Emperor talked with me agood deal, and thanked me for having done so much to amuse them. Neverwould they forget the pleasure they had had.

When we went up to our rooms to put on our cloaks there was no pretentiousmajordomo demanding his fee, and our particular valet looked sad, and didnot meet my eye when I tried to catch his to give a smile of adieu, andpersistently fixed his gaze on something at the other end of the corridor.I rather liked the old way better, as one felt that in a measure one hadmade some little compensation for all the delightful days spent there.

I asked my maid how the servants felt about this change. She said that intheir salle à manger almost all the maids and valets belonging to theguests gave pourboires.

After we had made our adieux, and taken our seats in the differentcarriages, their Majesties came out on the balcony to see us depart. Theywaved their hands in farewell as we drove off.

The journey back to Paris was a silent one. Every one was occupied withhis own thoughts. Prince Metternich sat in a corner talking with theimpervious diplomat; I wondered if he were relating the salad'scomplicated relationships. We all bade one another good-by, adding, withassumed enthusiasm, that we hoped to meet soon again, when perhaps we wererejoicing in the thought that we would not do so for a long time to come.

What insincere creatures we are!

May, 1870.

We were invited to a picnic at Grand Trianon, given by the Emperor and
Empress for the Archduke of Austria.

The rendezvous was to be at St. Cloud, and we were asked to be there atfour o'clock. On arriving we found the Metternichs, Édouard Delesert,Duperré, and Count Dehm, the Austrian Secretary. Their Majesties and thePrince Imperial joined us when we were all assembled. We then mounted thetwo char-à-bancs which were waiting for us in front of the chateau,with their postilions and four horses; the piqueurs, in their saddles,were all ready to precede us. The Emperor, Empress, the Prince Imperial,Princess Metternich, and the Archduke were in the first carriage; the restof us were in the second—about fourteen people in all. We drove throughthe lovely forest of Marly, the long, tiresome avenues of Versailles, andthrough many roads known probably only to the postilions, and perhaps usedonly on rare occasions such as this royal excursion, for they were in sucha bad condition, ruts and stones everywhere, that our heads and shoulderswere bumping continually against our neighbors'. Finally we reached PetitTrianon, where we left the carriages and servants, who were ordered tomeet us at Grand Trianon later, bringing our extra wraps with them. Theair was deliciously balmy and warm, and was filled with the perfume oflilacs and acacias.

We wandered through the park, admiring the skill of the artist who hadlaid it out so cleverly, just like Petit Val. This is not surprising, asit was the same person who planned them both. All the surroundings recallthe charming life which Marie Antoinette must have lived in the midst ofthis pastoral simplicity.

I wondered if the same thought passed through the Empress's mind whichpassed through mine. Could history ever repeat this unfortunate queen'shorrible fate? We continued our walk to Grand Trianon, and found the tablespread for our dinner under the wide charmille, near the lake. ThePrincess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and I on his left.

The Emperor was in excellent spirits, and bandied repartees with MonsieurDelesert, who surpassed himself in wit, and told many and sometimes ratherrisky stories, which made every one laugh. The Prince Imperial couldhardly wait till the end of the dinner, he was so impatient to get to therowboat which was ready waiting for him on the lake. The Empress was quitenervous, and stood on the edge of the lake all the time he was on thewater, calling to him, "Prends garde, Louis!" "Ne te penches pas, Louis!"and many other such counsels like any other anxious mother, and she nevertook her eyes from the little boat which was zigzagging about under thehands of the youthful prince.

It was after nine o'clock when we started to return to St. Cloud byanother route. The piqueur, finding the gate locked through which we hadto pass, knocked on the door of the lodge-keeper, who, awakened from hisslumbers, appeared in a déshabillé more than hasty, intending toadminister a savon (scolding) to such tardy comers. But on hearing fromthe piqueur that the monarch of all he surveyed was waiting in thecarriage, he flew to open the gate, disclosing his scanty night-attire.The funniest part of it was that, as soon as he realized the situation, hethought it his duty to show his patriotism, so he stood on the steps ofhis lodge and, as we passed through the gate, he chanted a hoarse andsleepy! "Vive l'Empereur!" and waved his smoking candle.

The Emperor was convulsed with laughter. I, who sat behind him, could seehis shoulders shaking.

The ball of the plébiscite was the most splendid thing I ever saw.The architects and decorators had outdone themselves. The gardens of theTuileries beyond the fountain had been hedged in by orange-trees, andother large trees moved there in their tubs. The whole parterre offlowers was festooned with lanterns and little colored lamps, making thisfairy scene as bright as day. The ballroom and adjoining salons, of whichthe windows had been removed as well as the iron railing outside of them,led on to a large platform which occupied the space of six such windows ordoors; these gave out into two colossal staircases which descended intothe garden. It was such a beautiful night, so warm that we ladies couldwalk about in our ball-dresses without any extra wraps; there were aboutsix thousand people invited, they said. It seemed as if all Paris wasthere.

After the quadrille d'honneur their Majesties circulated freely about.Every one was eager to offer congratulations to the Emperor. Was it notthe greatest triumph of his reign to have the unanimous vote of allFrance—this overwhelming proof of his popularity? As he stood theresmiling, with a gracious acknowledgment of the many compliments, he lookedradiantly happy to thus receive the homage of his country. As the Emperorpassed near me I added my congratulations, to which he replied, "Merci, jesuis bien heureux."

Their Majesties stood on the dais with the members of the Imperial family,and after watching the dance they all went in to the Pavillon de Flore,where supper was served for the notabilities.

For the others there was arranged a supper in the theater; an orchestra onthe stage played all the time; the balconies were festooned with flowersand filled with guests; there were supper-tables in the parquet and in thelargest loges, and plants and shrubs placed in every available spot.

LONDON, June, 1870.

DEAR M.,—What will you think of your dissipated daughter? Do you notthink that she is insatiable? I am sure that you will say that I ought tobe contented after the long season of gaiety and excitement in Paris, andsettle down in lovely Petit Val, where the lilacs and the violets call onewith scented voices.

However, we decided to go to London.

Did I write to you of our breakfast at Armenonville? After Lord Lyons'sball, which lasted until six o'clock in the morning, Prince Metternich andseveral others thought that it would be a good idea to go home, change ourball-dresses for morning-dress, and go out to the Bois for our morningcoffee. We did it.

I confess that it was a crazy thing to do after dancing all night; but thebeautiful May morning, the glorious sunshine, and our spirits inspired usto carry out this wild whim, much to the disgust of our sleepy coachmen.This excursion was not a success; we were all tired and longed for bed.One cannot be amusing or en train at seven o'clock in the morning.And as for the family, when we returned home all the comment they madewas, "What fools!" They did not see any fun in it; neither did we, to tellthe truth.

The Rothschilds, Lord Lyons, and Prince and Princess Metternich gave uswhat must have been very powerful letters, for we had hardly been inLondon more than a few days before we knew every one worth knowing, andall doors worth opening were opened to us, and I found myself what onecalls lancée.

We took rooms in Park Street; that is, we had the two stories of thehouse. The landlady lived downstairs, and gave us our meals when we wereat home. As soon as we got settled we left our cards and letters ofintroduction.

Invitation followed invitation in the most bewildering manner, sometimesseveral for the same day.

I could not begin to tell you all that we have already done. Writingletters seems to be the one thing which I have no time for. It is aperpetual push and rush from morning till night.

Our first dinner was at Baron and Baroness Rothschilds', where the Princeand Princess of Wales and a great many distinguished people were invited.I sat next to a Mr. Osbourne—everybody called him Dick. He told me thathe was the most dined-out and tired-out man in London, and that he had noteaten at home for six months.

I had not seen their Royal Highnesses since their visit to Paris duringthe Exposition. They said that they remembered me; but I cannot think itpossible that they can have such wonderful memories.

I never saw such a splendid collection of orchids as there was on thetable, and each lady had a bouquet of orchids and roses by her plate.

I was asked to sing, and was delighted to do it. The Rothschilds' ballroomwas a glorious place in which to make a debut.

Michael Costa, the well-known musician, came after dinner and accompaniedme in the "Cavatina" from "Rigoletto," and the waltz from the "Pardon dePloërmel."

Lady Sherbourne, a charming lady whom I fell in love with at first sight,sang also. She has a beautiful, rich contralto voice, and sang with agreat deal of expression an English song called, "Out on the rocks whenthe tide is low."

In your last letter you wrote, "I am afraid that you are on the way tobecome conceited." I am afraid myself I am, still I cannot resist tellingyou, this once, that my audience was very enthusiastic and Mr. Costa said—well, I won't tell you what he said; it might sound conceited. The lastthing I sang was "Beware!" which was immensely appreciated.

The Prince of Wales said: "That is a bewitching song. I never heard itbefore. Who composed it?"

I told him that it was written for me by my husband, and Longfellow hadwritten the words.

The Princess, before leaving, said, "I cannot tell you how much pleasure
you have given us this evening; we hope to see you often while you are in
London." She is very beautiful, even handsomer than when I saw her last.
Baroness Rothschild kissed me, and thanked me for having sung for her.

Call me vain and conceited if you will, my head is turned, and there isnothing more to be said about it!

A luncheon at "Caroline, duch*ess of Montrose's," at two o'clock upset mefor the whole day. I am not accustomed to those big déjeuners-dinatoires. I was sleepy and felt good for nothing the rest of the day;and when we dined at Lady Molesworth's that evening, "to meet theirRoyal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales," and wanted to be extraup-to-the-mark, I felt just the contrary. However, after dinner the Princeof Wales asked me to sing, and I did not refuse, and even sang most of theevening. There was a charming Baron Hochschild, the Swedish Minister, whosang delightfully. He is a thorough musician, and accompanied himselfperfectly with all the aplomb of an artist. He has a deep, rich barytone,and his répertoire consisted of all the well-known old Italian songs.Lady Molesworth is a beautiful old lady, who must have been a great beautyin her youth. She wears curls just like yours, dear mama, which made melove her. I met here Arthur Sullivan; he was full of compliments.

The next day we were invited to a matinée musicale at Lady Dudley's,preceded by a luncheon, which Mr. Osbourne called "a snare," because, hesaid, I could not refuse to sing. I did not want to refuse, either. Thepiano was in the beautiful picture-gallery, all full of Greuze's picturesbought from the Vatican; it has the most wonderful acoustics, and thevoice sounded splendidly in it. Lady Dudley is a celebrated beauty. LordDudley—before he succeeded to the title—was Lord Ward. The Duke andduch*ess of Sutherland asked us to dine. This was a very imposing affair;the Duke of Cambridge was at the dinner as the grosse pièce, and therewere many diplomats. After dinner several artists came from Covent Garden,and among them Madame Patti, who sang the "Cavatina" of "Lucia," withflute accompaniment, and how beautifully!

When I was introduced to her I said, "The first time I heard you sing wasyears ago when I was a little girl and you were in short dresses."

"In Rochester," I replied. "I shall never forget how exquisitely you sang
'Ah! non giunge' and 'Ernani.'"

"Yes, I remember quite well. I was singing in concerts with Ole Bull; butthat was a long time ago."

"It was indeed," I said; "but I have never forgotten your voice, nor alovely song you sang which I have never heard since, called 'HappyBirdling of the Forest.' And your trill! Just like the bird itself!"

We became quite good friends, and she made me promise to come to see her.She is charming. Every one was most enthusiastic. Some one said she gets athousand pounds for an evening. The Marquis de Caux (her husband) lookedrather out of place. It seemed queer to see him again, not as thebrilliant Marquis of the Tuileries (the "beau" par excellence), butsimply as the husband of Patti. He did not find a chance to speak to me.

Some days later Lady Anglesey gave a luncheon for me. On the invitationswere, "To meet Mrs. Moulton." I read between the lines: to hear Mrs.Moulton sing. They always put on their invitations, "To meet" so and so.

Mr. Quimby said to me, "I liked you from the first moment I saw you, but Ihad no idea you were going to be such a beast." "Beast!" I echoed. "Thatis not very complimentary." "A lion is a beast, isn't it?" he jokinglyreplied.

"Am I going to be a lion? I did not know it."

"Well, you are a lioness, which is better."

He is considered the wit of London, and this is a specimen of his wit.
What do you think?

At the luncheon there were Jacques Blumenthal, the famous pianist andcomposer, and Arthur Sullivan, who asked me to sing in his littleoperetta, which some amateurs are rehearsing for a soirée at LadyHarrington's; and on my acceptance he brought the music for me to try overwith him the next morning. The soirée was to be three days later. Themusic is nothing remarkable; in fact, the whole thing (it is called "TheProdigal Son") is not worthy of him. I have not met any of my fellow-performers yet. Forgive this jerky letter; I have been interrupted athousand times. Charles thinks it is time to go back to Paris; but we havejust received an invitation from Baron Alfred Rothschild to spend Ascotweek—a séjour de sept jours—with a party at a house he has hiredfor the race-week there, and I could not resist.

ASCOT, LONDON, June, 1870.

DEAR M.,—Viscount Sydney thought that we ought to ask for an audience ofthe Princess of Wales, and we did it. The audience was accorded, and wepresented ourselves at the appointed hour and were received by the lady ofhonor and shown into the beautifully arranged drawing-room. The Princesswas most gracious; she certainly is the loveliest lady I have ever seen. Itold her we were going to Ascot for the week, and she said that they werealso going there and hoped they would see us. Our interview came to anend, as such interviews do, without anything very interesting happening,and, finally, we backed ourselves out of the royal presence.

That evening there was a ball at Lady Waldegrave's, who lives atStrawberry Hill, a mile or so out of London. Baron Alfred Rothschildoffered to take us out there in his coach and-four. We dined first withthe Baron Meyer Rothschild, and afterward drove out to Strawberry Hill. Itis the most beautiful place you can imagine. I never saw anything so grandas the cedar-trees.

The cotillon lasted very late; the Duke of Saxe-Weimar talked a long timewith me, mostly about music. He is very musical, and knows Lisztintimately, and told me a quantity of anecdotes about him. He wasinterested in what I told him about Liszt's going to the Conservatoirewith Auber and me, and about the "Tannhäuser" overture incident. It wassix o'clock when we drove back to London. We saw the milk-carts on theirmorning rounds and the street-sweepers at work. One felt ashamed ofoneself at being in ball-dress and jewels at this early hour, gallopingthrough the streets in a fine carriage, making such a dreadful contrast tothe poor working-people.

I had great fun at Lady Harrington's musical soirée, where Arthur
Sullivan's "Prodigal Son" was to be sung.

We had been dining at Lady Londonderry's, and arrived rather late at LadyHarrington's. The whole staircase was crowded with people, and even downin the hall it was so full of ladies and gentlemen that there was noquestion of moving about. However, I made my way as far as the stairs,every one wondering at my audacity, and I murmured gently:

"May I pass?" There was a chorus of "Quite impossible!" "Perfectlyuseless!" and other such discouraging remarks. I said to a gentleman whosat stolidly on his step:

"Do you think I could send word to Mr. Sullivan that the Prodigal Son'smother cannot get to him?"

"What do you mean?" said he. "Are you—"

"Yes, I am; and if you don't let me pass you won't have any music."

You should have seen them jump up and make a pathway for me. I marchedthrough it like the children of Israel through the Red Sea. I wasenchanted to have my little fun. I joined the other performers, and themother of the Prodigal Son was received with open arms. The Prodigal Son'sfather was pathos itself, and we rejoiced together over our weak tenor-boy. The only fatted calves that were to be seen belonged to the fatflunkeys.

We had a beautiful time at Ascot. Alfred Rothschild was an excellent host.Among the other guests were the Archibald Campbells, the Hochschilds, Mr.Osbourne, the Duke and duch*ess of Newcastle, Hon. and Mrs. Stoner, one ofthe ladies of the Queen, Mr. Mitford, and others. Lady Campbell had onlyone dress with her (they must be very poor!); it was a black velvet(fancy, in the middle of summer!). She wore it high-necked for the racesin the daytime and low-necked in the evening. We drove to Ascot every dayat one o'clock. We had seats in the Queen's stand, and after seeing onerace we went to lunch with Mr. Delane, who had open table for one hundredpeople every day. Mr. Delane belongs to the Times newspaper.

Baron Rothschild had carte-blanche to bring any guest, or as many as heliked. The Prince of Wales always lunched there, and any one that was ofimportance was sure to be present. I made many new acquaintances, and youmay imagine how I enjoyed this glimpse of a world so entirely unknown tome. The races at Longchamps, Auteuil, and Chantilly I had seen many times;but I never saw anything like this exciting and bewildering scene.

The Prince of Wales gave a ball at Cooper's Hill (the house they had hiredfor the Ascot week), which was very charming and sans façon. I dancedthe cotillon with Baron Rothschild and a waltz with the Prince of Wales.The supper, which we had in the palm-garden, was an elaborate affair. Wedrove home in the early morning, just as the day was breaking.

The next day we lunched first at the barracks, and then afterward went toVirginia Water, where the Princess of Wales had arranged a picnic. Therewas boating on the pretty lake and tents on the lawn; tea was servedduring the afternoon, and a military band played the whole time. The greatattraction was the echo. We all had to try our voices, and the gentlemenmade bets as to how many times the echo would be heard. Some loud,piercing voices were repeated as many as eight times.

Here we bid our kind host good-by and took the train for Twickenham. Wepassed the night with Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman at their villa. The next day wewere invited to a croquet-party and dinner by the Count and Countess deParis.

We arrived at Twickenham Court at four o'clock, and began playing our gamedirectly. Mrs. Hoffman had been praising me to the Countess de Paris tosuch a degree that she was fired with ambition to play against a"champion" of the first water, When we appeared on the ground I noticedthat the Countess had a small ivory mallet. "This," I said to myself, "isa foregone conclusion; any one who plays with a fancy mallet, and that ofivory, is sure to be beaten." And in my conceit I thought I need not givemyself much trouble about the game. Alas! I never appreciated the sayingthat "pride has a fall" until that day. At first I played with utterindifference, I was so sure of winning, and even when the Countess deParis walked triumphantly over the ground, carrying everything before her,I smiled inwardly, saying to myself, "Just wait." But though I played myvery best I never scored a game, and I could not even make a decentstroke. I felt so discouraged, and I was beaten all to pieces. The dinnerwas solemn and impressive, the whole Orléans family being present.

The Prince de Joinville, the Duke de Chartres, and the Count de Paris,with their wives; in all, about twenty at table. I was disgusted withmyself, provoked at my silly self-assurance, and mortified that I had beenbeaten à plate couture, which in English means that all my seams hadbeen turned down and ironed, and all my feathers were drooping.

We were (at least I was) glad to escape at ten o'clock. I don't think Iever was so tired. The week at Ascot, the picnic at Virginia Water, theballs, and the late sitting-up at night, all told on my nerves, andinstead of resting at the Hoffmans', I passed a miserable and restlessnight.

The following day we returned to London in time to drive out, at oneo'clock, with the Lionel Rothschilds to their country-place. It is themost magnificent estate; the cedar-trees are particularly beautiful, andthe broad lawn, which stretches out in front of the house, is the finest Ihave ever seen. Baron Rothschild himself drove the coach and four horses,and we spun along the fine road, passing Richmond and all the prettyvillas and gardens, which were full of roses. It was my birthday, and Ihad many splendid presents. From Baroness Rothschild I received a superbtraveling-bag, all the fittings of silver gilt, with my initials. BaronAlfred Rothschild gave me a smelling-bottle, with the colors of hisracing-stables in enamel. We had a delightful luncheon, and got back toLondon in time for dinner at Lady Sherbourne's. On hearing it was mybirthday, she took a diamond-ring from her finger and gave it to me.

More balls, more dinners, luncheons, and garden-parties followed oneanother.

We intend to leave London after the ball at Marlborough House. I must gohome, as I have nothing more to wear. We had accepted an invitation to thegarden-party given by the Princess of Wales at Chiswick (their charmingcountry-place). All the beauty and elegance of London graced the occasion.The Princess looked exquisite in her dainty summer toilette, and had apleasant smile for every one. The Prince circulated among the guests,speaking to every one in his usual genial manner. The three littlePrincesses looked like three fluffy pink pin-cushions covered with whitemuslin. On the extensive lawn, which was like a green-velvet carpet, theladies strolled about in their pretty, fresh dresses, sometimes sitting atthe little tables which were shaded by large Japanese umbrellas placedbetween the terrace and the walk. It was a garden of living flowers.

The Prince of Wales, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, said to me, "Whathave you been doing since Ascot?"

"I have been doing a great deal, sir: dining and dancing and enjoyingmyself generally."

"I am glad to know that. Been singing?"

"Not much, sir. We dined at Twickenham Court, where I played a disastrousgame of croquet," I answered.

"Do they play croquet at Twickenham Court?"

"Indeed they do, sir. The Countess de Paris plays a very good game."

"What day did you dine there?"

"On the 17th, your Highness," I replied.

"Are you sure it was the 17th you dined there?"

"Yes, I am quite sure. I know it, because it was the day before mybirthday."

"Was it a large dinner?"

"It was rather large. The whole Orléans family was there, and someothers."

"Did you know that they had had a conseil de famille that day?"

"No," I answered; "I heard nothing of it."

The Prince continued: "The whole family signed a petition to the EmperorNapoleon to be allowed to return to France and serve in the army. Can youimagine why they want to go back to France when they can live quietly hereand be out of politics?" the Prince said.

"Do you think, sir, that the Emperor will refuse?"

"One never knows," said the Prince. "Qui vivra verra."

The Marlborough ball was very magnificent. The Princess of Wales lookedexquisite. She is very lovely, and has gracious, sweet manners. I don'twonder that her people adore her; and I think the Prince is just as goodas he can be.

July, 1870.

On our return from London I remained quietly at delightful Petit Val.

On the 10th of July we received an invitation to a dinner at St. Cloud,but unfortunately we had promised Baroness Rothschild to spend some daysat Ferrières, and when the invitation came we were obliged to send atelegram to St. Cloud expressing our regrets. There is such a talk of war,and so many rumors afloat, that every one is more than excited. AlphonseRothschild says that, if there should be a war, it will be a tremendousone, and that Germany is better prepared than France. "But," said he, "youought to know about that, as your brother-in-law Hatzfeldt is in thesecrets of his country."

"That's just it," I answered; "because he is in the secrets of his countryhe is the last person to learn anything from, and we (the family) would bethe last to know. But do you think that, if war were really imminent, theEmperor would think of giving a dinner?" I asked.

"That might be. We don't yet know what the result of Benedetti's interviewwith the King of Prussia at Ems will be," the Baron answered.

We stayed at Ferrières until the 14th, and returned to Petit Val, where wereceived another invitation to St. Cloud for the 17th, which we accepted.On the 15th we went to Chamarande, returning to Paris on the followingafternoon. The Duke de Persigny was not at Chamarande, otherwise we shouldhave been a little more au courant of how desperate things looked inParis. The duch*ess had a word from the Duke the night before, "and heseemed," she said, "very despondent." But I remarked, as I did before,"Things could not be so threatening if they were giving a dinner." "Je n'ycomprends rien," she replied, which was her invariable answer to any doubtexpressed, or when one wanted a direct response.

We got back to town at half-past five, and I soon began dressing for thedinner. We drove out to St. Cloud, and arrived at the door of the châteaujust before seven o'clock. What was our astonishment at not seeing any ofthe numerous servants who generally were waiting in the vestibule. Therewas only one man to be seen.

I began taking off my mantle, still wondering, when Monsieur de Laferrièrecame quickly out from one of the salons and said excitedly, "Did you notreceive my letter countermanding the dinner?"

"Countermanding the dinner! What? Then there is no dinner?"

"No," he rejoined; "it has been countermanded."

As our carriage could not yet have got very far off, nothing was easierthan to call it back and return to Paris. And I put on my wrap to depart,and stood there waiting for the coupé. Then Monsieur de Laferrière cameout again and said, "Her Majesty says that, now that you are here, you hadbetter stay."

"But," I protested, "it is much better for us to go back."

He looked puzzled and said, "But the Empress desires it; you cannot wellrefuse, can you?"

"We will do as you advise."

"Then I advise you to stay," he answered.

And stay we did, and I never regretted anything so much in my life.

When we went into the drawing-room their Majesties were already there. TheEmpress came toward me and said kindly, "How do you do?" The Emperor heldout his hand, but did not say a word. He looked so ill and tired. Neverhad I seen him look like that! The Prince Imperial seemed preoccupied andvery serious.

Dinner was announced; the Emperor gave his arm to the Empress, and thePrince gave me his. There was no one beside ourselves and the Household,perhaps twenty in all, and dinner was served in the small dining-roomlooking toward Paris. On the other side of me was Count d'Arjuson, aide-de-camp to the Emperor.

You may imagine that I wished myself a hundred miles away. The Emperornever uttered a word; the Empress sat with her eyes fixed on the Emperor,and did not speak to a single person. No one spoke. The Emperor wouldreceive telegram upon telegram; the gentleman sitting next to him openedthe telegrams and put them before his Majesty. Every now and again theEmperor would look across the table to the Empress with such a distressedlook it made me think that something terrible was happening, which wastrue. I could not learn much from my surroundings, as dead silencereigned. The dinner was very simple. How different from the gorgeousrepasts of Compiègne, and how sad every one looked! I was glad when thesignal for leaving the table was given and we re-entered the drawing-room.

The Emperor was immediately surrounded by his gentlemen. The Empress moveda little way off, but without taking her eyes from her husband. The PrinceImperial stood by his father, watching him. Then the Empress advancedtoward his Majesty and took his arm to leave the room. Just as she nearedthe door she looked at me, turned back, and coming up to where I wasstanding held out her hand and said, "Bonsoir." The Emperor stood a momentirresolutely, then, bowing his head, left the room with the Empress on hisarm, the Prince following.

We bade the dames d'honneur good night and fled, found the coupé beforethe entrance, and weren't we glad to get in it and drive away? I never inmy life felt what it was to be de trop and even deux de trop. Wereached the Rue de Courcelles at nine o'clock. It was too early to go tobed, and so I am sitting in my dressing-gown, while Charles has gone tohis club to learn the latest news.

19th July.

This morning war was declared for sure, and they say that the Emperor isleaving soon with the Prince. Every one is very confident of the successof the French Army, and people go about in the streets singing "À Berlin"to the tune of "Les lampions."

PETIT VAL, 28th July.

The Emperor, with the Prince, left this morning for Metz, to take thecommand of the army. He did not come into Paris, but in order to avoiddemonstrations, noise, etc., had a platform put up on the other side ofthe station at St. Cloud, where the Empress and her ladies could say theiradieux without the crowd looking on. The last words the Empress said toher son were, "Louis, fais ton devoir." She is made the Regent during theabsence of the Emperor.

30th August.

It looks now as if there might be war all over France. As it is, thePrussians are near Paris, and the French are trying to regain the groundthey have lost. The news we get is very contradictory. According to theFrench official reports the French Army has been successful all the time.The English papers probably give the untarnished truth, unfavorable as itmay be to France. Some people say that at the worst there is only aquestion of unimportant skirmishes.

We are well out of Paris and safely in Dinard, where Mr. Moulton isbuilding a new house (we have already two). We left Petit Val ratherprecipitately, leaving everything behind us, clothes in wardrobes andletters in commodes. We shall not be away more than a month.

I can only say that we lead the most peaceful of lives during this time ofwar. I will not tell you any news, because it won't be news when you readit. We are and have been all the time fed on false reports, great placardspasted up everywhere telling of the French victories, but from our Englishpapers we know the contrary. It is pitiful to see the poor, half-cladpeasants being drilled on the beach with sticks in their hands instead ofguns. It is the French idea of keeping up the spirits of the army.

I sang in the cathedral last Sunday, and the quête (the money taken),they said, was a large sum. I doubt it! I know what the quêtes are here.Anything that can rattle in the bag is good. Buttons are particularlypopular, as no one can see what you put in, and it does not matter.

There was a tremendous storm last night, and many of the slates of the newvilla were blown off. The servants who sleep there thought that theGermans had come at last, and were frightened out of the few wits theyown.

Madame Gignoux, our neighbor at Petit Val, who is living in her otherchâteau in Brittany, sent a letter to me which I should send to Helen inBerlin, to be sent to Paul, who is in Versailles, to be sent to Mr.Washburn, in Paris, who is to give it to Henry at Petit Val. Ratherroundabout way! I can't tell you how much of that sort of thing I amconstantly doing for people who are afraid of doing anything forthemselves; they think every one is a spy or a traitor.

PARIS, March 14, 1871.

DEAR MAMA,—You will be surprised to see that I am in Paris; but you willunderstand why when I tell you that I received a letter from Mrs. Moultonto this effect: "If you wish to go to Petit Val to look after the thingsyou left there when you went to Dinard last August, you had better come toParis without delay, as the trains are running regularly now." The trainsmay have been running regularly (I left Dinard the next day), but theywere certainly not running on time, for we missed all connections, andonly arrived at Rennes after seven o'clock, too late to catch the eveningtrain for Paris. The fine omnibus at the station made me imagine that itbelonged to an equally fine hotel, but the hotel proved to be anything butfine. It was dreadfully dirty and shabby, and filled to overflowing. Itwas with the greatest difficulty I was able to secure a room for myself.My grumbling maid had to content herself with the sofa. The salle àmanger was thronged with officers clanking their swords on the brickfloor and all talking at once. I passed a sleepless night, being keptawake by the loud and incessant conversations in the corridor and thecontinual tramping of soldiers under my window. We started for Paris thenext morning at eight o'clock. The train was crowded with people who, likemyself, were eager to return home after so many months of anxious waiting.In all the stations through which we passed one saw nothing but soldiers,their ragged uniforms hanging on their emaciated forms; their feet—whichhad been frozen in January (poor things!)—were still bandaged, and hardlyany of them possessed shoes. They did look, indeed, the picture of abjectdejection and misery.

At Le Mans, the place where we stopped for luncheon, the soldiers werelying about on the brick pavement of the station, too tired and worn outto move, and presenting the saddest sight it has ever fallen to my lot towitness. They were waiting for the cattle vans to take them away. In thesethey would be obliged to stand until they reached Paris and its hospitals.Every one of the travelers was anxious to alleviate their misery in someway, by offering them cigars, food, and money. My heart bled for the poorcreatures, and I gave them all I had in my purse, and my luncheon also.They represented the debris of Faidherbe's army, which of all the troopshad seen the most desperate fighting during the war. All the trains wepassed were packed tight with soldiers, herded together like cattle,patient misery painted on their pale, tired faces.

Hungry and penniless I arrived at last in Paris, where I was delighted tosee a healthy, normal-looking person in the shape of my brother-in-law,Henry, who met me at the station. He had plenty to tell me of hisexperiences since last September. He had been living at Petit Valthroughout the whole campaign, and was still there looking after ourinterests, faisant la navette between Petit Val, Paris, and Versaillesat his will. He had free passes for all these places. On my arrival at theRue de Courcelles I found the family well, Mrs. Moulton knitting as usual,Mademoiselle Wissembourg napping, and Mr. Moulton reading the Journal desDébats out loud in his peculiar French.

I thought of the "Brook," by Tennyson: "Men may come and men may go, but Igo on for ever." The family had not eaten cats and dogs during the siegeas, according to the newspapers, other people had done.

Mr. Moulton having been in Paris at the time of the Revolution of 1848,and knowing about revolutions, had had the forethought to lay in a stockof provisions, such as ham, biscuit, rice, etc., and all sorts of cannedthings, which he deemed would be sufficient for all their requirements.They had even given dinner-parties limited to a very choice few, whosometimes brought welcome additions in the shape of other canneddelicacies.

When the family moved from Petit Val to Paris last September, the FrenchGovernment had given them permission to keep one or two cows. They alsobrought a calf, a sheep, and some chickens with them. The cows and thesheep shared the stables with the horses, while the chickens were letloose in the conservatory, and were expected to lay enough eggs to pay fortheir board. The gardener had cleverly converted the conservatory into asort of kitchen garden, and had planted some useful vegetables, such asradishes, carrots, salad, etc., so you see the family took good care thatit should have enough to eat, and mice and rats only appeared on the tableafter the repasts.

PARIS, March 16, 1871.

DEAR MAMA,—This has been a very fatiguing day for me, so you will onlyreceive a short letter.

Paul [Footnote: Count Hatzfeldt, my brother-in-law.] invited Mrs. Moultonand me to come to Versailles, and offered us a cup of tea as aninducement. You know Paul is Count Bismarck's private secretary, havingbeen with him and the German sovereign during the entire war. He is stillat Versailles, but expects to leave for Berlin one of these first days. Hecame to fetch us at the station with the fat ponies and the basket-wagon(the ponies had escaped the fate of other fat ponies, and they had notfurnished steaks for famished Parisians, but continued to trotcomplacently about, as of old). Fortunately they were not too fat to carryus through the park at a lively pace, and land us at Paul's palatialresidence. It seemed strange to see German officers, in their tight-fitting uniforms, strolling leisurely about in the park, where before Ihad only seen the rather slovenly pious-pious on holidays, when thefountains played by day and the fireworks by night.

The park looked enchanting in its spring toilette, and made me think ofthe last time I was here. Could it have been only last May? It seems yearsago!

Paul had invited some of his German officer friends to take tea with us.
Paul had been with the King of Prussia and Jules Favre and Bismarck at
Ferrières, where they had met, he said, "with no other result than to see
Jules Favre weep."

Paul had been at Versailles when the King was proclaimed Emperor in thesalle de glaces—the greatest emotion he had ever experienced, he said.He had also been witness of the signing of the armistice. The pen withwhich it was signed had been given him as a souvenir, and it was lying onhis table.

Paul thought the Emperor Napoleon more to be pitied than blamed. He hadgone into this war without really knowing the true state of things. He wasmade to believe that there were four hundred thousand men ready to takethe field, when in reality there were only half that number, and thosecertainly not fit to be pitted against the Germans, who had been providedwith better and newer maps than the French, and knew France and its armymore thoroughly than the French themselves. We could have talked on thissubject for hours had not the fat ponies come to take us to the station,where we bade farewell to Paul and the officers, and returned to Paris forthe modest repast which we dignified by the name of dinner.

March 17th.

DEAR MAMA,—Such a funny thing happened to-day.

I don't know whether I told you of some Americans, called the O——s, Imet in Dinard fresh from America (via Southampton). When I bade themgood-by, I said, in an offhand way, "When you come to Paris you must comeand see me."

"Oh! that will be nice," gushingly replied Mrs. O——. "Where do you live?"
(Every one of the O——s' phrases commenced with "Oh!")

"I live in the Rue de Courcelles," I answered.

"Oh! Roue de Carrousel," she repeated. "What number?"

"Rue de Courcelles," I replied, correctingly; "twenty-seven."

Mrs. O——'s next question was, "Oh! have you a flat?"

"A flat!! No," I said, "we have a hotel. Every one knows our hotel in the
Rue de Courcelles."

I then proceeded to forget the O——s and everything concerning them. Thismorning, when we were at luncheon, the concierge came rushing in, thetassels on his calotte bristling with agitation.

"Madame," he gasped, "there is a fiacre full of people with a lot oftrunks asking to come in to Madame. I can't understand what they want."His emotion choked him.

We all said in unison: "Ask for their cards. Who can they be?"

The concierge came back with Mr. O——'s card.

I recollected my impulsive invitation and thought it very polite of themto be so empressés. I went into the salon, followed by MademoiselleW——, where we found Mr. O—— seated at his ease in a fauteuil, hisfeet reposing on the white-bear rug.

I apologized for having kept him waiting, but explained that we had beenat luncheon.

He (complacently), "Oh, that's all right; we have just arrived in Parisand we came straight to you."

I felt overwhelmed at such a keen appreciation of my politeness.

"How is Mrs. O——?" I said.

He answered with the inevitable "Oh!" "Oh! she's all right. She's outsidein the cab."

"Indeed!" I said, and wondered why she had not sent her card in with his,though I supposed she was waiting to be asked to come in, if he found meat home.

"We thought before trying anywhere else we would see if you could take usin."

This staggered me considerably. I tried to take him "in" as he stoodbefore me with traveling cap and umbrella.

"Are you full?" he went on. Mademoiselle and I wondered if we showed signsof a too copious luncheon.

"Why, what a nice place you have here!" looking about. "Well," hecontinued, nothing daunted, "you see, we only want one bedroom, for us,with a room next for baby, and one not too far off for Arthur."

What was he driving at? Mademoiselle W—— thought he was either a spy ora burglar who had come to take a survey of the hotel. Her bracelets andbunch of keys rattled ominously as the thought of burglars entered herbrain.

He, familiarly settling himself down for a chat, "Do you think you couldpick up a maid for Mrs. O——?"

Mademoiselle and I exchanged a glance of intelligent indulgence andthought: All our friends wanted, probably, was a few addresses beforesettling themselves in Paris. How stupid of us not to have thought of thissooner! I hastened to promise all sorts of names and addresses oftradespeople, thinking he would take his departure.

Not he! On the contrary, he tucked his umbrella more firmly under his arm,and turned to Mademoiselle W——: "Have you got a register?" taking her,no doubt, for la dame du comptoir.

Mademoiselle draped herself in her most Rachel-like attitude and glancedknowingly at the hot-air flue which she had been told was a register.

"We have," she answered curtly, wondering if this extraordinary creaturecould be suffering from cold on this warm spring day.

"I had better write my name down!" This was too much! Mademoiselle thoughtnow that he was not only a burglar, but a lunatic.

"I think," I said, "I can give you the address of a very nice maid,"trying to lead him back into the paths we had trodden before.

"Oh! that'll be all right. You have perhaps a maid in the house?"

"Certainly we have," answered Mademoiselle with asperity, giving hervelvet bow an agitated pat.

"Money is no object," continued he; "I'm always willing to pay what oneasks." Mademoiselle now thought he was drunk and was for sending for theservants.

I asked him, "How is the baby?"

"Oh! baby's all right. The nurse has been a little upset by the journey.
You might give us the address of your doctor."

"Yes, yes." I gave him the name instantly, hoping he would go.

"We don't need him right off; he can come here later, and you can talk tohim yourself. Maria does not speak French."

Mademoiselle gasped for breath, while he looked about him approvingly.

"Real nice house you have, Madame, not very central, but we don't mindbeing in a quiet part of Paris, as Maria wants to learn French"; andseeing the conservatory, he remarked: "Arthur can play in there. That'lldo splendidly." After an awkward pause: "Well, if the rooms are ready, wecan come right in. Maria will be wondering why I have been so long."I also wondered why he had been so long!

To cap the climax, he handed Mademoiselle a five-franc piece, saying: "Iguess this will cover the cab. The coachman can keep the change."

A light dawned on me! He thought this was a hotel!

I said, "When you get settled in your hotel I will come and see you."

"What! Can't you take us in? We counted on coming to your hotel."

I laughed outright. Mademoiselle raised what she is pleased to call hereyebrows and shrugged her shoulders,

I explained to my guest his mistake. Instead of saying, "Oh! that's allright," he said, "Well, I'll be blessed," and without wasting any moretime than for a hasty good-by he marched out to join the tired Maria, thebaby, the nurse, and Arthur. We watched them as they drove off, all gazingout of the window at the hotel which was not a hotel.

May Allah protect them!

March 19th.

DEAR MOTHER,—The day before yesterday Henry and I decided to go to PetitVal. I looked forward with delight to seeing my beautiful home again. Mrs.Moulton promised to drive out and bring me back to Paris late in theafternoon. We drove to the Gare de la Bastille and took our tickets for LaVarenne. The station was so horribly dirty, it looked as if it had notbeen swept or cleaned since the commencement of the war, and as for thefirst-class compartment we entered I really hesitated to sit down on theshabby and dilapidated cushions.

We traveled very slowly, and stopped at every station mentioned in thetime-table. Although these were devoid of travelers, the conductor openedthe doors of all the carriages, and after waiting the allotted timeshouted mechanically, "En voiture," though there was absolutely no one toget in.

I thought we never would arrive!

All the little towns, once so thrifty and prosperous, are now hardly morethan ruins. It is no wonder that this part of the country (Vincennes, St.Maur, Chenvières, etc.) is so destroyed, because it was all about herethat the French, shut up in Paris, had made the most frequent sorties.Everything was terribly changed.

Now my beautiful bridge is a thing of the past. There is one arch half inwater and debris of stone and mortar on the shore.

Henry and I, having no alternative, were obliged to walk from the stationto the pontoon bridge, made, Henry said, in one night. I don't know aboutthat; but what I do know is that the French blew up my bridge in onenight. Then we made the whole distance to Petit Val on foot, passingby the châteaux of Ormesson, Chenvières, Grand Val, and Montalon.

All the châteaux we passed are utterly abandoned, some quite in ruins; onecan see, for instance, right through beautiful Grand Val, bereft ofwindows and doors.

But worse was awaiting me! My heart sank within me when we came in sightof the potager, the glory of Petit Val, so renowned in its day forits fruits and vegetables. Now it is frightful to see! Its walls tornasunder; cannon put in its crenelated sides, dilapidated and destroyed;the garden filled with rubbish of all description. But, as though naturewere protesting against all this disorder and neglect, the cherry-treeswere placidly blossoming; the almond-trees, with their delicate pinkflowers, filled the air with perfume: everything, in short, doing its partin spite of war and bloodshed. Your heart would ache if you could see theplace as it is now. The porter's lodge is completely gutted, windowlessand doorless, open to wind and weather.

It seems strange to see a sentry-box stationed at the entrance of the parkand a sentinel pacing to and fro. Henry gave the password, and we walkedup the avenue toward the château. I will not weary you by trying to depictmy feelings, but will leave you to imagine what they must have been. Ilooked in vain for the beautiful Lebanon cedar which, you remember, stoodwhere my nightingale used to sing, on the broad lawn. Henry said that ithad been the first tree that the Germans had cut down, and it had beenlying there on the lawn just as it fell, where the soldiers couldconveniently cut their fuel. Henry called my attention to a white flagflying on the chateau, which, at Paul's request, Count Bismarck hadordered to be put there.

Henry said it signified in military language that only staff officers wereto occupy the château, and that no unnecessary damage should be done "ifwe are quiet." Did Bismarck think we were likely to be unruly and go aboutshooting people? The one thing in the world we wanted was to be quiet. Theflag also signified that the château should be protected. Henry had oncecomplained to Bismarck of the damage done by the German soldiers at PetitVal, and Bismarck had replied, "À la guerre comme à la guerre," adding,"The German Government will hold itself responsible for private losses,with the exception of those which are consequences of a state of war …there is always a certain amount of unavoidable destruction."

"Unavoidable destruction!" cried Henry; "this can cover a multitude ofsins."

"The exigencies of war, if you like that better," rejoined Bismarck.

Paul Hatzfeldt wrote to Helen last September that the King of Prussia hadpromised to put Petit Val under special protection. He even wished to gothere himself; but Paul thought Petit Val looked so spoiled that he wasglad the King did not go. If it was spoiled in September last, imaginewhat it must have been six months later, with six months of soldiers tospoil it!

When we arrived at the château itself the officers, who had evidently justbeen lunching, came out to meet us, wondering, apparently, who thiscourageous lady (poor trembling me!) could possibly be. Henry knew theirnames, and presented them all to me; they clanked their heels together andmade the most perfect of military salutes.

The commanding officer in charge of Petit Val is Count Arco, a major of aBavarian regiment. I hastened to explain my presence among them, sayingthat I wished to collect the various things I had left in the château whenI went away last August, and I had taken advantage of the first occasionwhich offered itself of coming here.

Count Arco held a short conversation with Henry, who told him I would liketo go to my apartment. "Do not trouble to have anything disarranged forme," I said, "as I shall only be here for a short time. My mother-in-lawis driving out later in the afternoon to take me back to Paris."

While we were talking Count Arco informed me that there were twenty sixofficers in the château itself and one hundred and twenty soldiersquartered round in the different pavilions, farm-houses, ateliers, and—I think he said—about fifty in the orangerie.

Presently an orderly appeared and conducted me to my rooms, which hadevidently been hurriedly evacuated, but they looked quite nice and clean.I was agreeably surprised to find my writing-desk and commodes prettynearly as I remembered to have left them. At any rate, letters, trinkets,and so forth seemed undisturbed. I wish I could say the same for mywearing apparel, which had considerably diminished since my departure.Waists without their skirts, and skirts without their waists, and I foundvarious female articles unknown to me; but never mind! Honi soit qui maly pense!

It was said in France that no German could resist a clock, and that thedearth of clocks after the war is quite noticeable. To prove the contrary,and to applaud the officers who had lived in Petit Val (and there had beenmany hundreds of them), my clock was ticking away as of old on mymantelpiece.

Having finished packing the things to take with me, I wished to have alook at protected Petit Val.

The "unavoidable destruction" had been interpreted in a very liberalsense.

The salon was a sight never to be forgotten. The mirrors which paneled thewhole of the east wall were broken, as if stones had been thrown at them;every picture had been pierced by bayonets. The beautiful portrait of theMarquis de Marigny (the former owner of Petit Val and brother of Madame dePompadour) had vanished. Instead of the Aubusson furniture we had left,which, I suppose, has been transferred to other homes, I found two pianos,one grand (not ours), two billiard-tables (not ours), some iron tables,and some very hard iron chairs (certainly not ours), annexed, I shouldsay, from a neighboring café.

The library, formerly containing such rare and valuable books, is now abedroom—the shelves half empty, the books scattered about, some of thempiled up in a corner and used as a table. Henry said that, when any onewanted to light a fire or a pipe, they simply tore a page out of a book.What did they care? Was it not one of the "exigencies of war"? The framesand glasses of the engravings were broken; but, fortunately, all theengravings were not ruined.

You remember Mrs. Moulton's boudoir, where all was so dainty and complete?The soldiers had converted it into a kitchen, and at the moment we werethere they were cooking some very smelly cabbage à la tedesco.

My pretty pavilion! If you could have seen it!

Evidently the all-powerful flag had not protected this, for it was withoutdoors, windows, and parquets. The only thing in it was a dear little calfmunching his last meal before being killed. To make it look more like aslaughter-house, there were haunches of beef hanging on the Louis XV.appliques, which had been left on the walls to serve as nails. Fresh bloodwas dropping from them on the sacks of potatoes underneath.

The officers had coffee served under the charmille.

I was glad to get something to sustain my sinking heart. Henry and I tooka sad walk through the park. The once beautifully kept lawn is now like aploughed field, full of ruts and stones.

The lake was shining in the sun, but on it there were no boats. The grottoover which used to trickle a little waterfall was completely dry, showingthe ugly stucco false rocks. It seemed dismal and forlorn. I wondered howI ever could have thought it beautiful! The rivière was without itspretty rustic bridge; the picturesque pavilions were filled with soldiers;some were sitting on the porches mending their clothes.

Five o'clock came before we realized how late it was. We expected thecarriage every moment; but there was no sign of it, though we scanned thelength of the long avenue with the Count's field-glasses.

Why did Mrs. Moulton not come? Something must have happened! But what?Henry and I were seriously alarmed. Noticing our looks of dismay, CountArco asked me if I was anxious. I replied that I naturally was anxious,because if my mother-in-law could not come or send the carriage shecertainly would have telegraphed. He then inquired if I wished to send atelegram. No sooner had I said "yes" than an orderly appeared on horsebackto take the telegram to the station. He returned, while we still stood inthe avenue looking for the longed-for carriage, with the astounding newsthat all the telegraph wires were cut.

To take the train was our next idea, and the wondering orderly was againsent back to find out when the next train would start. This time hereturned with still more astounding news.

There were no trains at all!

Count Arco seemed to be most agitated, and I could see, by the expressionof the faces of the other officers, that they were more disturbed thanthey wanted us to notice.

What should I do? Everything was in ruins in the village. There was noteven an auberge of the smallest dimensions. All the neighboring châteauxwere abandoned. Of whom could I ask hospitality? Count Arco, seeing myembarrassment, proposed my staying the night at Petit Val. Henry's livingthere made it easier for me. So I accepted his offer; besides, there wasno choice. The soldiers arranged my room according to their ideas of alady's requirements, which included a boot-jack, ash-trays, beer-mugs,etc. Their intentions were of the best.

At seven o'clock Henry and I dined with the officers. It seemed strange tome to be presiding at my own table surrounded by German officers, CountArco being my vis-à-vis.

Do you want to know what we had for dinner? Bean soup, brought fromGermany. Sausages and cabbage, put up in Germany. Coffee and zwiebacks, Isuppose also from Germany.

The evening passed quickly, and I must admit very pleasantly. Any one whohad pretensions to music played or sang, Henry performed some of hiscompositions; one officer did some card tricks. They all had an anecdoteof their experience from the past months, which they told with greatrelish. Henry whispered to Count Arco: "My sister-in-law sings. Why don'tyou ask her for a song?" I could have pinched him!

Although I was very tired and did not feel like it, I reflected thatalmost anything was preferable to being begged and teased. And, after all,why not be as amiable as my companions, who had done their best to amuseme?

I seated myself at the piano and commenced with one of Schumann's songs,and then I sang "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," of Massé, which had a greatsuccess, and at the refrain, "Et moi! j'ai l'âme triste," there was not adry eye in the little circle. Graf Waldersee, one of the oldest warriors,wept like an infant while I was singing, and coming up to me, afterblowing his nose, said, in his delightfully broken English, "You zing likean angle [I hope he meant angel]. It is as if ze paradise vas opened tous." Then he retired in a corner and wiped his eyes. I sang "Ein Junglingliebt ein Mädchen," of Schumann, and when I came to the line, "Und wem dasjust passieret, dem bricht das Herz entzwei," I heard a mournful sigh. Itcame from the Benjamin of the flock, a very young officer, who sat withhis hands over his face sobbing audibly. What chord had I struck? Washis the heart that was breaking entzwei?

I had sung to many people, but I think I never sang to a more appreciativeaudience than this one.

Henry accompanied me in "Beware!" Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. Theyall gathered around me, eager to thank me for the unexpected pleasure. Ireally think they meant what they said.

When I returned to my room I looked out of my window and saw the sentinelpacing to and fro in the moonlight. I realized for the first time thatthe château was protected!

I mourned the beautiful and stately Lebanon cedar!

March 18th.

It seemed so strange to wake up and find myself in my room. An orderlybrought me a very neatly arranged tray, with tea and buttered toast and anote from Henry announcing the terrible news that Paris was under arms—arevolution (rien que ça) had broken out, and all approaches to thecity were barricaded. This was news indeed! I understood now why nocarriage came last night, why trains were stopped, why telegraph wireswere cut, and why no mother-in-law appeared.

Henry was waiting to communicate with me as soon as I was out of my room.
Indeed, a more stranded mortal than I was could hardly be imagined!
However, there seemed nothing for me to do but to await events.

The officers met us in the salon, and we discussed the situation anddifferent possibilities, but without any practical result.

Every one was much excited about the news. The officers pretended not toknow more than we did; perhaps what they did know they did not care totell. We saw messengers flying in all directions, papers handed about,more messengers galloping down the avenue, agitation written on the facesaround us. All I knew was that there was a revolution in Paris and Iwas here.

Going out to the stables, we found the soldiers grooming their horsesunconcernedly. From there we went to the orangerie, which presenteda queer sight. The soldiers, of whom there must have been sixty, hadarranged their beds all along the walls on both sides, and to separatethem one from another had placed a tub with its orange-tree. The aviaryhad been converted into a drying-ground for their lingerie; they hadsuspended ropes from side to side, and thereon hung their week's washamid all its "unavoidable destruction." Henry told me that when theGermans first came to Petit Val they begged old Perault (the butler) tohand them the key of the wine-cellar, and on his refusing they had tiedthe old man to a tree in the park, and left him there the whole of onecold night to consider the situation. Needless to say, the next day theGermans had the key. After they had taken all the best Château-Lafitte andall the rare wines Mr. Moulton had bought during the Revolution of 1848,they emptied the casks containing the Petit Bleu, made on the estate!The result was disastrous, and could Mr. Moulton have only seen the poorcreatures doubled up with torture he would have felt himself amplyrevenged.

We ascended the hill behind the château to the high terrace, from whereone can see Paris. We saw no smoke, therefore Paris was not burning. Butwhat was happening there? We returned to breakfast, where the militaryband was playing on the lawn (a superfluous luxury, I thought, but I didnot realize that so trivial a thing as a revolution could not interferewith military order). We were treated to the eternal sausage and somethingthey called beefsteak; it might as well have been called "suprême dedonkey," it was so tough. However, the others ate it with iron jawsand without a pang. Count Arco suggested I should take a drive, enattendant les événements, and see the neighborhood. I acquiesced,thinking anything in the way of distraction would be a welcome relief.Imagine my feelings when I saw our calèche, a mere ghost of its formerself, dragged by four artillery horses and postilioned by two heavydragoons.

"The exigencies of war" had obliged the soldiers to remove the leather,the carpet, the cushions, and all the cloth; only the iron and woodremained to show that once this had been a carriage.

This ancient relic drew up with a thump on what had been flower-beds, andthe Count opened the door for me to enter, but on observing my look ofdismay when I saw the hard, cushionless seats, despatched an officer totry to find a cushion for me. Apparently, however, cushions were souvenirsour friends had forgotten to bring with them from other residences.Judging from the time we waited, the officer must have ransacked the wholehouse, but had found nothing better than a couple of bed-pillows, withwhich he appeared, carrying one under each arm, to the great amusem*nt ofthe beholders. I mounted this grotesque equipage, the Count and Henryfollowing, and sat enthroned on my pillows of state.

We asked, before starting, if there was any news from Paris, and receivingan answer in the negative, we drove off. Up hills, over lawns and flower-beds, zigzagging through vineyards and gardens, never by any chancekeeping to the proper road, we made the tour of the environs.

To give you an idea how completely the châteaux had been ransacked, I cantell you that I picked up about a yard and a half of handsome Brusselslace in the courtyard of the château of Sucy. We drove hastily through theadjoining estate of Grand Val, which looked even more deplorable thanSucy. I began to wonder if the artillery horses and the carcass of thevehicle in which we sat would be capable of carrying me to Paris, or atleast within walking distance of it. You see, I was beginning to getdesperate. Here was I, with the day almost over, without any apparentprospect of getting away. But, as the Psalmist puts it, "Sorrow endurethfor a night, but joy cometh in the morning." My joy came late in theafternoon, on returning to Petit Val, where I found the landeau of theAmerican Legation, my mother-in-law, and (hobnobbing with the Germanofficers) the American Minister himself, the popular and omnipotent Mr.Washburn.

They were overjoyed to see me, as they had been as anxious as I had been,having tried every means in their power to reach me. To telegraph wasimpossible; to send a groom on horseback equally so. Finally, as a lastresource, they had written to Mr. Washburn to see if he could not solvethe difficult question, which he did by driving out himself with Mrs.Moulton to fetch me.

As soon as the horses were sufficiently rested (my hosts and I beingprofuse in our mutual thanks), we started for Paris, passing throughAlfort, Charenton, and many villages, all more or less in ruins. Therewere plenty of people lounging about in the streets. We reached Vincenneswithout difficulty; but thenceforth our troubles commenced in earnest.

Mr. Washburn thought it more prudent to close the carriage, cautioning thecoachman to drive slower. We were stopped at every moment by soldiers andbarricades; then Mr. Washburn would show his card and his laissezpasser, after which we were allowed to pass on, until we came to moresoldiers and more barricades. Omnibuses turned over, paving-stones piledup, barrels, ladders, ropes stretched across the streets, anything to stopthe circulation. Poor Mr. Washburn was tired out popping his head firstout of one window then out of the other, with his card in his hand.

[Illustration: ELIHU WASHBURN
United States Minister to France during the Commune]

The men who accosted us were not discourteous, but spoke quite decidedly,as if they did not expect to be contradicted. We did not care tocontradict them, either.

"We know you, Monsieur, by reputation, and we know that you are welldisposed toward France. How do you feel toward la Commune?" Mr.Washburn hesitating a moment, the man added, cynically, "Perhaps you wouldlike to add a stone to our barricades." He made as if he would open thedoor of the carriage; but Mr. Washburn answered, holding back the door, "Itake it for granted, Monsieur, that I have your permission to drive on, asI have something very important to attend to at my Legation," and gave theman a defiant look, which rather frightened him, and we drove through thecrowd. All along the Rue de Rivoli we saw the soldiers massing together ingroups, La Garde nationale (Mr. Washburn said they so called themselvessince yesterday), a miserable-looking set of men, talking very loud andflourishing their guns as if they were walking-sticks.

In passing the Rue Castiglione we saw it was full of soldiers, and lookingtoward the Place de la Concorde we saw more barricades there.

This was a sight to behold! The space around the Column was filled withpaving-stones and all sorts of débris (strange to say, my eyes saw morebrooms than anything else); and cannon pointing everywhere. A veryimpertinent, common-looking voyou said, on looking at Mr. Washburn'scard, "Vous êtes tous très chic… mais vous ne passerez pas, tout demême."

We shook in our shoes.

But Mr. Washburn, equal to the occasion, said something which had thedesired effect, and we passed on.

All along the Rue de Rivoli the yesterday-fledged soldiers were stragglingabout, glad to have a day of leisure. They brandished their bayonets witha newly acquired grace, pointing them in front of them in such a recklessway that people made a large circle around them, frightened to death.

As we passed the Hôtel de Ville we saw the red flag of the Communardswaving over the Palace. Barricades and cannon filled the space betweenthat and the Rue de Rivoli. Here we were stopped again, and tired Mr.Washburn, annoyed to death, answered more stupid questions, showed hiscard and documents, and gave a little biography of himself. I thought weshould never get on.

I could have cried when I saw the Tuileries; it was only last August I hadhad a delightful half-hour with the Empress (she asked me to take tea withher). Then she was full of confidence in the triumph of the Emperor (whocould have doubted it?), pleased that her son should have received lebaptême du feu, as the Emperor telegraphed—oh, the pity of it all! andthat was only last August—seven months ago.

As we drove by I thought of the famous ball given at the Tuileries lastMay (Le bal de Plébiscite), the most splendid thing of its kind onehad ever seen.

And now! The Tuileries deserted, empty, the Emperor a prisoner, theEmpress a fugitive! All France demoralized! All its prestige gone! Onewonders how such things can be.

[Illustration: RUE DE RIVOLI, WHERE THE HÔTEL CONTINENTAL NOW STANDS]

Mr. Washburn said he was not sorry to have remained in Paris (anexperience he would on no account have missed). He thought he had been ofservice to his own country and also to France.

Mrs. Moulton remarked, "What would those shut up in Paris have donewithout you?"

"Oh! I was only a post-office," he answered.

"The only poste restante in Paris," I said under my breath; but I didnot dare utter anything so frivolous at the moment.

In the Faubourg St.-Honoré things were much quieter, though there werenumbers of soldiers slouching about with their muskets pointing everywhich way. When we arrived at last in the Rue de Courcelles (it had takenus four hours) all was as quiet as Sunday in Boston.

Mr. Moulton had been almost crazy with anxiety; but the thought that wewere sailing under the American colors had calmed him somewhat, and hispast emotions did not prevent him from reading the Journal des Débats tous. I slipped off to bed tired out, but thankful not to be any longer"under protection."

March 20th.

Louis asked permission to go and assist at the proclamation of the
Commune, which was to be read at the Hôtel de Ville.

There was a platform built in front of the façade, which was decoratedwith many red flags and covered with a red carpet, and all the new membersof the committee wore the symbolical red sashes over their worthyshoulders. The statue of Henry II. was duly draped with red flags andragged boys. Louis stood first and foremost among many of his oldcomrades, the famous and plucky Zouaves. Henri d'Assy read theproclamation out in a loud voice, and informed the public that the Commune(this new and charming infant) was baptized in the name of Liberté,Égalité, and Fraternité. There was great enthusiasm, and a salvo ofartillery underlined the big words, and there arose a mighty shout of"Vive la Commune!" from thousands of hoarse throats which shook the veryearth. Louis's account was worth hearing; but mine is only the truth withvariations. He was most impressed, and I fancy it would not have takenmuch persuasion to have made him a red-hot Communist then and there.

Great excitement prevailed all Sunday. The Communists remained inpossession of all the public buildings. The red flag was hoistedeverywhere, even from the palace of the Princess Mathilde, who, as youknow, lives directly opposite us. The Princess had left Paris lastSeptember. All the world knows how our clever American dentist, Dr. Evans,helped the Empress safely out of Paris, and of her flight; and after thecatastrophe of Sedan it would have been dangerous for any member of theImperial family to have remained here. As I look from my window across tothe Princess's palace, and see all the windows open and the courtyardfilled with shabby soldiers, I realize that we are en pleine Commune,and wonder when we shall come out of all this chaos, and how it will allend.

To-day there was a great demonstration in the streets.

A young fellow named Henri de Pène thought if he could collect enoughpeople to follow him he would lead them to the barricades in the PlaceVendôme, in order to beg the Communards, in the name of the people, torestore order and quiet in the city. He sent word beforehand that theywould come there unarmed.

De Pène started at a very early hour from the distant Boulevards, callingto every one and beckoning to them, in order to make them come from theirbalconies and from their work, and shouting to all in the streets, managedto assemble a large crowd to join in his courageous undertaking.

I happened to go at one o'clock to Worth's, in the Rue de la Paix, and,finding the street barred, I left my coupé in the Rue des Petit* Champs,telling Louis to wait for me in the Rue St.-Arnaud (just behind the Rue dela Paix), and I walked to No. 7.

I wondered why there were so few people in the streets. The Place Vendômewas barricaded with paving-stones, and cannon were pointing down the Ruede la Paix. I walked quietly along to Worth's, and hardly had I reachedhis salon than we heard distant, confused sounds, and then the shouting inthe street below made us all rush to the windows.

What a sight met our eyes!

This handsome young fellow, De Pène, his hat in his outstretched hand,followed by a crowd of men, women, and children, looked the picture oflife, health, and enthusiasm.

De Pène, seeing people on Worth's balcony, beckoned to them to join him;but Mr. Worth wisely withdrew inside, and, shaking his Anglo-Saxon head,said, "Not I." He, indeed!

The crowd bore banners on which were written: "Les Amis du Peuple,""Amis de l'Ordre" "Pour la Paix" and one with "Nous ne sommes pasarmés." This mass of humanity walked down the Rue de la Paix, filling thewhole breadth of it.

One can't imagine the horror we felt when we heard the roar of a cannon,and looking down saw the street filled with smoke, and frightened screamsand terrified groans reached our ears. Some one dragged me inside thewindow, and shut it to drown the horrible noises outside. De Pène was thefirst who was killed. The street was filled with dead and wounded. Mr.Hottingeur (the banker) was shot in the arm. The living members of LesAmis scampered off as fast as their legs could carry them, while thewounded were left to the care of the shopkeepers, and the dead wereabandoned where they fell until further aid should come.

It was all too horrible!

I felt terribly agitated, and, moreover, deadly sick. My one thought wasto reach my carriage and get home as quickly as possible. But how was I toaccomplish it? The Rue de la Paix was, of course, impossible. Worth had acourtyard, but no outlet into the Rue St.-Arnaud. He suggested that Ishould go through his ateliers, which he had at the top of the house,and reach an adjoining apartment, from which I might descend to the RueSt.-Arnaud, where I would find my carriage. He told one of his women tolead the way, and I followed. We toiled up many flights of wearisome stepsuntil we arrived at the above-mentioned ateliers. These communicated withanother apartment, of which Worth's woman had the key. On her opening thedoor we found ourselves in a small bedroom (not in the tidiest condition),which appeared to have just been occupied.

We passed through this room and came out to a staircase, where thedemoiselle said, "You have only to go down here." I therefore proceeded todescend the five flights of waxed steps, holding on to the wobbly ironrailing, my legs trembling, my head swimming, and my heart sick. My onlyhope was to reach the carriage and home!

When at last I came to the porte-cochère I found it closed and locked,and the frightened concierge would not open for me. Fortunately, I had agold piece to make her yield to my demand. She reluctantly unfastened thedoor and I went out. The street was filled with a terrified mob howlingand flying in every direction. I caught a glimpse of the carriage away upthe street, and I saw a hand gesticulating above the heads of the crowd,which I recognized as Louis's. It was the only one with a glove on!

I pushed my way through the mass of people, saying, very politely,
"Pardon," as I pushed, and very politely, "Merci," after I had passed.

My horse had been unharnessed, and a man was trying to lead him away inspite of Louis's remonstrances. The man had hold of one side of thebridle, while Louis, with a pluck unknown before, kept a firm grip on theother, the horse being tugged at on both sides; and had he not been theangel he was, there would have been trouble in that little street.

The man holding the bridle opposite to Louis seemed a most formidableperson to me. Still, I tried to smile with placid calmness, and though Iwas shaking all over said, "Pardon, Monsieur, will you permit me to havemy horse harnessed?" I think he was completely taken off his guard, for,with the intuitive gallantry of a Frenchman, he answered me amiably,throwing back his coat, and showing me his badge, said, "I am the agent ofthe Committee of Public Safety, and it is for the Government that I takethe horse."

I made him observe that it would be very difficult for me to walk to myhome in the Rue de Courcelles, and if his government wanted the horse itcould come there and fetch it. He looked doubtfully at me, as if weighingthe situation, then said, very courteously, "I understand, Madame, and Igive you back your horse." And he even helped Louis to reharness thehorse, who seemed happy to return to his shafts.

When I arrived home I had to go to bed, I was so exhausted. Mademoiselle
W—— administered the infallible camomile tea, her remedy for every ill.
Her mind cannot conceive of any disease which is not cured by camomile
tea, unless in extremis, when fleurs d'oranger takes its place.

24th of March.

The American secretary, Mr. Hoffman, and his wife, who are living in
Versailles, invited Mrs. Moulton and me to luncheon to-day, saying that
Mr. Washburn was also of the party; therefore we need have no fear of
being molested or inconvenienced on our way.

There were only two trains to Versailles now. We took the one at middayfrom Paris, and arrived slowly but surely at the dirty, smoky station,where we found Mr. Hoffman waiting for us with a landau, in which we droveto his house.

We had an excellent luncheon, to which we all did justice; after which Mr.Hoffman proposed our going to the Assemblée, which has its sittingsin the Palace, and we readily consented. I was particularly glad to havean opportunity to see the notabilities whose names and actions had beenour daily food these last months.

We sat in Mr. Hoffman's box, who, in his position as secretary of theAmerican Legation, had been obliged to attend all these séances from thefirst. He knew all the celebrities, and most amiably pointed them out tome. Thiers was in the president's chair; Louis Blanc, Jules Favre, JulesGrévy, and others were on the platform.

I confess I was rather disappointed; I thought that this pleiades ofbrilliant minds would surely overcome me to such a degree that I shouldnot sleep for weeks. But, strangely enough, they had just the oppositeeffect. I think Mr. Washburn must be writing a book on modern history, andMr. Hoffman must be writing one on ancient history. I sat between them—adrowsy victim—feeling as if my brain was making spiral efforts to comeout of the top of my head.

While I was trying with all my might to listen to Thiers's speech, who, Iwas sure, was saying something most interesting, Mr. Hoffman, on one sideof me, would say, in a low tone, "Just think of it! Here, in these verysame boxes, the pampered and powdered [or something like that] Court ofLouis XIV. sat and listened to Rameau's operas." I tried to seemimpressed. Then, on the other side, I would hear, "Do you know, Mrs.Moulton, that the Communists have just taken seven millions of francs fromthe Bank of France?" The distant, squeaky voice of Thiers trying topenetrate space, said, "La force ne fonde rien, parce qu'elle ne résoutrien." And when I was hoping to comprehend why "La force" did not "fonder"anything I would hear Mr. Hoffman whisper, "When you think that Louis XVI.and Marie Antoinette passed the last evening they ever spent in Versaillesin this theater!" "Really," I replied vaguely. My other neighbor remarked,"You know the 'Reds' are concentrating for a sortie to Versailles." "Youdon't say so!" I answered, dreadfully confused. There would be a moment'spause, and I caught the sound of General Billet's deep basso proposingthat the French nation should adopt the family of General Lecomte, who hadbeen so mercilessly butchered by the mob. Mr. Hoffman, continuinghis train of thought, remembered that Napoleon III. gave that"magnificent dinner" to Queen Victoria in this theater. Jules Grévy talkedat great length about something I did not hear, and when I asked Mr.Hoffman what it was, he answered me, something I did not understand. JulesFavre next spoke about the future glories of notre glorieux pays and thedestiny of France. These remarks were received with tremendous applause.People stood up, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs, every one seemingvery excited; but my American friends were not greatly impressed. "Howtypical!" says Mr. Hoffman. "What rubbish!" says Mr. Washburn.

When we returned to Paris we found Mr. Moulton in a flutter of agitation.Beaumont (the renowned and popular painter) had been at the house in theafternoon, and had asked Mr. Moulton's permission to bring Courbet (thecelebrated artist, now a Communard) to see us. Mr. Moulton had no soonersaid yes than he regretted his impulsiveness, but he forgot to callBeaumont back to tell him so. The result was that we had the visit ofCourbet last evening.

Mr. Moulton put on a bold face and broke the news to us on our arrival;but, contrary to his fears, Mrs. Moulton and I were enchanted.Mademoiselle Wissembourg was not so enthusiastic. A live Communard at suchnear focus had no attraction for her.

Beaumont's politics are sadly wanting in color, making him supremelyindifferent to other people's politics; and, as he has a great admirationfor Courbet as an artist, he does not care whether he is a Communard ornot.

We waited with impatience for the appointed hour, and lo! Courbet stoodbefore us. Mademoiselle Wissembourg had once remarked that she had greatsympathy for the people, who must feel themselves oppressed and degradedby the rich and powerful, and so forth. But I noticed, all the same, thatshe retired into a corner, probably thinking Courbet was bristling allover with pistols, as behoves a Communard.

Courbet is not handsome; he is fat and flabby (of the Falstaff type), witha long beard, short hair, and small eyes; but he is very clever, as cleveras Beaumont, which is saying a good deal.

Of course they talked of "the situation." Who could help it? Courbetbelongs more to the fraternity part of the motto than he does to theequality part of the Commune! He is not bloodthirsty, nor does he go aboutshooting people in the back. He is not that kind! He really believes (sohe says) in a Commune based on principles of equality and liberty of themasses. Mr. Moulton pointed out that unlimited liberty in the hands of amob might become dangerous; but he admitted that fraternity absolves manysins.

They talked on till quite late. Beaumont showed him his last picture,which he (Beaumont) thinks very fine, but all Courbet said was, "What apretty frame!" I don't know if Mrs. Moulton and I felt much admiration forthe great artist, but he left us convinced that we were all in love withhim. We told Mr. Moulton we thought it might get us into trouble ifCourbet vibrated between us and the hotbed of Communism. But Mr. Moultonanswered, "What does it matter now?" as if the end of the world had come.

Perhaps it has.

March 24th.

Since I have been in Paris I have wished every day to go and see my formersinging-master, Delsarte; but something has always prevented me.

To-day, however, having nothing else to do, I decided to make the long-projected visit; that is, if I could persuade Mademoiselle to accompanyme. After my experience in the Rue St.-Arnaud the other day I did notventure to drive, so we started off to walk (with Mademoiselle's reluctantconsent) to the Boulevard de Courcelles, where Delsarte moves and has hisbeing.

Poor Mademoiselle was frightened almost to death, shaking with terror atevery sound, and imagining that the Communards were directly behind us,dodging our footsteps and spying upon our actions. At the sight of everyragged soldier we met she expected to be dragged off to prison, and whenthey passed us without so much as glancing at us I think she felt ratherdisappointed, as if they had not taken advantage of their opportunities.

Finally we reached the house, and mounted the six stories, the stairs ofwhich are steep, slippery, and tiring. On our upward flight I remarked toMademoiselle that I wished Delsarte lived in other climes; but she was fartoo much out of breath to notice any such little joke as this. I saw nochange either in him or in any of his surroundings.

He told us that he had suffered many privations and deprivations while thesiege was going on. Probably this is true; but I do not see how he couldhave needed very much when he had the piano to fall back on, with all itsresources. How vividly the scenes of my former lessons loomed up beforeme when I stood shivering with cold in the never-heated room, my voicealmost frozen in my throat, and was obliged to sing with those awfuldiagrams staring me in the face!

Delsarte asked me many questions about my music: whether I had had theheart to sing pendant ce débâcle. I said, "Débâcle or no débâcle, Icould never help singing."

My dear old friend Auber came to see me this afternoon. He had not hadmuch difficulty in driving through the streets, as he had avoided thosethat were barricaded. We had a great deal to talk about. He had been inParis all through the war and had suffered intensely, both physically andmentally; he looked wretched, and for the first time since I had known himseemed depressed and unhappy. He is old and now he looks his age. He is atrue Parisian, adores his Paris, and never leaves it, even during thesummer, when Paris is insufferable. One can easily imagine his grief atseeing his beloved city as it is now. He was full of uneasy forebodingsand distress. He gave me the most harrowing description of the killing ofGeneral Lecomte! It seems that the mob had seized him in his home andcarried him to the garden of some house, where they told him he was to bejudged by a conseil de guerre, and left him to wait an hour in themost pitiable frame of mind.

The murder of General Clément Thomas was even more dreadful. Auber knewhim well; described him as kind and gentle, and "honest to the tips of hisfingers." They hustled him into the same garden where poor General Lecomtealready was, pushed him against the wall, and shot him, killing himinstantly. Then they rushed upon their other victim, saying, "Now is yourturn." In vain did Lecomte beg to be judged by his equals, and spoke ofhis wife and children. But his tormentors would have none of that, andshot him then and there. Lecomte fell on his knees; they dragged him tohis feet, and continued firing into his still warm body. When the populacewas allowed to come in they danced a saturnalia over his corpse. Aubersaid: "My heart bleeds when I gaze on all that is going on about me. Alas!I have lived too long."

I tried to make him talk of other things, to divert him from his darkthoughts. We played some duets of Bach, and he accompanied me in some ofhis songs. I sang them to please him, though my heart was not "attuned tomusic," as the poets say.

March 25, 1871.

I have not had the time to write for some days, but I am sure you willforgive me. Mrs. Moulton and I have been going to the ambulances every daythis week.

There are many of these temporary hospitals established all over Paris,supplied with army surgeons and nurses.

Mrs. Moulton, like many other ladies, had volunteered her services duringthe war, and had interested herself in this worthy cause; and as she isabout to leave for Dinard one of these days, she wanted me to take up herwork in the hospital of the Boulevard la Tour-Maubourg. She knows all thedirectors and nurses and introduced me to them.

The director asked me if I would like to help in the section desétrangers. I replied that I would do anything they wished, hopinginwardly that I might develop a talent for nursing, which, until now, hadlain dormant.

It was not with a light heart I entered the ward to which I was aligned,and saw the long rows of beds filled with sick and wounded.

My first patient was a very young German (he did not look more thantwenty). He had been shot through the eyes, and was so bandaged that Icould hardly see anything but his mouth. Poor little fellow! He was veryblond, with a nicely shaped head and a fine, delicate mouth.

His lips trembled when I laid my hand on his white and thin hand, lyinglistlessly on the coverlid. I asked him if I could do anything for him.

He answered me by asking if I could speak German. On my saying that Icould, he said he would like to have me write to his mother.

I asked the director if it was allowed for me to communicate with hisfamily. He answered that there would be no objection if the contents ofthe letter were understood by me.

Therefore, armed with pencil and paper, I returned to my invalid'sbedside, who, on hearing me, whispered: "I thought you had gone and wouldnot come back."

"You don't think I would be so unkind as that?" I answered.

I felt that we were already friends. I sat down, saying that I was readyto write if he would dictate.

His lips moved; but I could not hear, and was obliged to put my ear quiteclose to his poor bandaged face to hear the words, Meine liebe Mutter.He went on dictating, and I writing as well as I could, until there came apause. I waited, and then said, "Und?" He stammered something which I madeout to be, "It hurts me to cry," whereupon I cried, the tears rolling fastdown my cheeks. Fortunately he did not see me!

This is my first trial, and I have already broken down!

I told him I would finish the letter and send it to his mother, "FrauWanda Schultz, Biebrich am Rhein," which I did, adding a little postscriptthat I was looking after her son, and would take the best care of him. Ihope she got the letter.

The doctor advised the patient to sleep, so I left him and went to anotherbed, which they indicated.

This was an American, a newspaper reporter from Camden, New Jersey. He hadjoined Faidherbe's army in February, and had been wounded in the leg. Hewas glad to talk English. "They do things mighty well over here", said he;"but I guess I'll have to have my leg cut off, all the same."

When I put the question to him, "What can I do for you?" he replied, "Ifyou have any papers or illustrated news or pictures, I should like to seethem." I said I would bring some to-morrow.

He was very cheerful and very pleasant to talk with.

On reaching the Rue de Courcelles we found Mr. Washburn.

He was utterly disgusted with the Communards. He even became violent whenhe spoke of their treatment of Generals Lecomte and Clément Thomas. Herather took their defense during the first days of the Commune, sayingthey were acting in good faith; but now I think he has other ideas aboutthem.

Auber also came at five o'clock; he gets more and more despondent, and isvery depressed. He had heard that the Communards had commenced pillagingin the Quartier de l'Odéon, also that the Place Vendôme was beingplundered.

To what are we coming?

The next day I found my little German soldier decidedly worse. He hadreceived a letter from the Mutter, which he asked me to read to him. Itried my best to overcome the difficulties of the writing and spelling,and made many mistakes, causing the poor little fellow to smile. Hecorrected me every time very conscientiously.

I did feel so sorry for him; he seemed so gentle and never complained ofhis sufferings, which must have been intense. The nurse, feeling hispulse, announced an increase of fever, and thought he had better rest,When I said, in as cheerful a voice as I could assume; "Well, good-by forto-day," he said, "To-morrow you will come?" Alas! there was to be no to-morrow for him.

My other patient, Mr. Parker, appeared very comfortable, and immenselypleased to see that I had not forgotten to bring the newspapers andpictures. I also took a chess-board, thinking to amuse him. The doctorlooked dismayed when he saw me carrying a chessboard under my arm."Madame," he said, "I think that chess is too fatiguing for an invalid;perhaps something milder would be better. I have always understood," hesmilingly added, "that chess is a game for people in the most robusthealth, and with all their mental faculties."

I felt utterly crushed. This was the way my attempts to divert the sickand the wounded were received! I thought how little I understood thecharacter of hospital work. Mr. Parker, evidently feeling sorry for mydiscomfiture, told the doctor it would amuse him to play checkers if hewould allow it. The doctor consented to this, and I sent Louis off to buya box of checkers. Mr. Parker and I played two games, and he beat me eachgame, which put him in splendid spirits, and I think did him no harm.

Mrs. Moulton and I drove out to the Bois after the ambulance visit. I hadnot been there since last August. How changed it was! The broad Avenue del'Impératrice, where the lovely Empress drove every day in her calècheà la Daumont, surrounded by the magnificent Cent Gardes, is now almostimpossible to drive in. The trees are cut down, and the roads full ofditches and stones.

Rochefort, who was in power while the siege was in progress, suggestedsome medieval methods too childish for belief—to annihilate the wholeGerman army if they should enter Paris. He had ordered pitfalls in theAvenue de l'Impératrice—holes about three feet deep—in which heintended the German cavalry to tumble headlong. He thought, probably, thearmy would come in the night and not see them. Rochefort had also builttowers, as in the time of the Crusaders, from which hot oil and stoneswere to be poured on the enemy. Did you ever hear of anything so idiotic?He little dreamt that the German army would take possession of Paris,bivouac in the Champs-Élysées, and quietly march out again.

We visited the Pré Catalan, where last year fashionable society met everyday to flirt and drink milk. That is, as you may imagine, minus cows.These had, like all the other animals, been eaten and digested long ago.Thick hides not being at a premium, the hippopotamus and rhinoceros hadbeen kindly spared to posterity.

March 29th.

To-day I went to the ambulances as usual. The doctor greeted me with hisusual kindness; he said there was an invalid for whom I was needed, andconducted me to his bedside.

My new patient was a German officer about thirty-five years old. He saidhe came from Munich. I told him about Count Arco (also from Munich), whomhe knew, and about Petit Val, in which he seemed interested. We talkedmusic, and he became quite excited when he spoke of Wagner, to whom,according to him, no one could compare. I did not want to discuss thiswide subject; I merely remarked that Mendelssohn and Weber had their goodpoints, which he allowed, but replied that they were utterly out offashion. I did not agree with him, and, to show that Weber was a genius, Ihummed the prayer from "Der Freischütz."

There was a visible movement among the white-covered beds, and the nursesfrowned, while the doctor came hurriedly toward me, holding up his fingerwarningly.

I really have no talent for nursing. It seems that everything I do iswrong.

The German officer said, when I went away, "I will convince you to-morrow,when you come, that Wagner is the greatest genius living." I answered thatundoubtedly he would, and bade him good-by.

When I reached the carriage I found a small crowd collected around it, andI hurried to get in, and hardly had time to shut the door when Louiswhipped the horse, and we were galloping away toward home. Once there,Louis told me that he would respectfully advise me not to go in thecarriage with a coachman in livery again. Anything, he said, in the formof luxury or wealth excited the mob, and no one could tell what it mightdo when excited.

Therefore we decided to abolish the liveries for the future. When wereached home we found that we were one horse less, the Communards havingtaken it out of the stables without further ado than a mild protest fromthe frightened concierge. The Comité de Transport promised to return thehorse when no longer needed.

[Illustration: RAOUL RIGAULT]

March 31st.

DEAR MAMA,—Mr. Moulton thought it better that I should leave Paris. Butto leave Paris one must have a passport from the Prefect of Police. Heconsulted Mr. Washburn about it, who not only consented to give me a cardof introduction to Raoul Rigault (whom he knew personally), but offered tosend me to the prefecture in his own carriage.

This morning at eleven the carriage was at the door, and with it thepromised card of introduction. I noticed that the coachman had no livery,nor did he wear the co*ckade of the Legation; neither was there anyservant. I suppose Mr. Washburn thought it safer for us to drive throughthe streets without creating any unnecessary notice or running the risk ofbeing insulted.

Mademoiselle W—— accompanied me, and with her the omnipresent bag filledwith chocolates, bonbons, etc., for any unforeseen event.

On our way she discoursed on the manner one ought to treat ces gens-là. One should (she said) not brusquer them, nor provoke them in anyway, but smile kindly at them and en générale be very polite.

I don't know how many times I had to pull out my billet de circulationbefore we reached the prefecture.

It was a long time since I had been down the Rue de Rivoli, and I wasdisgusted when I saw the half-clad half-starved soldiers, in their dirtyboots and down-trodden shoes, slouching about with their torn uniforms andcarrying their rusty guns any which way.

At last we arrived, and we were about to descend from the carriage, when aragamuffin of a Communist, shouldering his gun and looking all-important,sprang forward to prevent us; but on showing my "billet," he nodded hishead, saying, "C'est bien."

At the mere sight of him Mademoiselle W—— said, "Don't you think, chèreMadame, that it is better to return home?" I answered: "Nonsense! Nowthat we are here, let us go through with it."

A few steps farther an awkward soldier happened to drop his gun on thepavement. At the sound of this, poor Mademoiselle W—— almost sank on herknees with fright.

The small gate next to the large iron one was opened, and we entered thecourtyard. This was filled with soldiers. A sentinel stood before the doorof the large corridor which led to the Prefect's office. Inside this roomstood a guard, better dressed and seemingly a person of more importance.On showing Mr. Washburn's card, I said to him that I had come here for thepurpose of getting a passport, and would like to speak to Monsieur Rigaulthimself.

We went toward the door, which he opened, but on seeing Mademoiselle W——he stopped us and asked: "Who is that lady? Has she a card also?"

We had never thought of this! I was obliged to say that she had not, butshe had come to accompany me.

He said, rather bluntly, "If she has no card, I cannot allow her toenter."

Here was a pretty plight. I told him, in the suave manner whichMademoiselle W—— had recommended to me, that Mr. Washburn would haveincluded this lady's name on my card had he foreseen that there would beany difficulty in allowing her to follow me as my companion.

"Madame, I have strict orders; I cannot disobey them."

I did not wish him to disobey them; but, nevertheless, I whispered toMademoiselle W——, "Don't leave me, stay close by me," thinking the manwould not, at the last moment, refuse to allow her to remain with me.

Alas! the door opened. I entered; the door closed behind me; I looked backand saw I was alone. No Mademoiselle in sight! My heart sank.

I was escorted from room to room, each door guarded by an uncouth soldier,and shut promptly as I passed.

I must have gone through at least seven rooms before I reached thesanctuary in which Monsieur Raoul Rigault held his audience.

This autocrat, whom the republicans (to their eternal shame be it said)had placed in power after the 4th of September, is (and was then) themost successful specimen of a scamp that the human race has ever produced.At this moment Rigault has more power than any one else in Paris.

When the guard opened the door he pointed to the table where Raoul Rigaultwas seated writing (seemingly very absorbed). He appeared to me to be aman of about thirty-five or forty years old, short, thick-set, with afull, round face, a bushy black beard, a sensuous mouth, and a cynicalsmile. He wore tortoise-shell eyeglasses; but these could not hide thewicked expression of his cunning eyes.

I looked about me and noticed that the room had very little furniture;there was only the table at which the Prefect sat and two or three plainchairs. Just such a chamber as Robespierre might have occupied duringhis République. There were two gendarmes standing behind Rigault'schair waiting for orders, and a man (of whom I did not take particularnotice) leaning against the mantelpiece at the other end of the room.

I approached the table, waiting like a culprit for the all-powerful
Rigault to look up and notice me.

But he did not; he continued to be occupied with what he was doing. So Iventured to break the ice by saying, "Monsieur, I have come to procure apassport, and here is Mr. Washburn's card (the American Minister) to tellyou who I am."

He took the card without condescending to look at it, and went on writing.

Getting impatient at his impertinence, I ventured again to attract hisattention, and I said, as politely as possible (and as Mademoiselle couldhave wished), "Will you not kindly give me this passport, as I wish toleave Paris as soon as possible?"

Thereupon he took up the card, and, affecting the "Marat" style, said,
"Does the citoyenne wish to leave Paris? Pourquoi?"

I answered that I was obliged to leave Paris for different reasons.

He replied, with what he thought a seductive smile, "I should think Pariswould be a very attractive place for a pretty woman like yourself."

How could I make him understand that I had come for a passport and not forconversation?

At this moment I confess I began to feel dreadfully nervous, seeing thepowerless situation in which I was placed, and I saw in imaginationvisions of prison-cells, handcuffs, and all the horrors which belong torevolutions. I heard the sonorous clock in the tower strike the hour, andrealized that only minutes, not hours, had passed since I had been waitingin this dreadful place.

"Monsieur," I began once more, "I am rather in haste, and would thank youif you would give me my passport."

Upon which he took Mr. Washburn's so-much-looked-at card, scrutinized it,and then scrutinized me.

"Are you La Citoyenne Moulton?"

I answered, "Yes."

"American?"

I replied I was, and in petto—mighty glad I was to be so.

"Does the American Minister know you personally?"

"Yes, very well."

"Why do you wish to deprive us of your presence in Paris?"

I repeated that my affairs required my presence elsewhere.

I saw he was taking no steps toward making out my passport, and I becamemore agitated and unnerved and said, "If it is impossible for you,Monsieur, to give me the passport, I will inform Mr. Washburn of the fact,and he will no doubt come to you himself for it."

This seemed to arouse him, for he opened a drawer and took out a blank tobe filled for a passport, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, as ithe was bored to death.

Now followed the most hateful and trying quart d'heure I ever passed inmy life. I fancy Raoul Rigault had never been in the society of a lady(perhaps he had never seen one), and his innate coarseness seemed to makehim gloat over the present situation, and as a true republican, whosemotto is Égalité, Fraternité, Liberté, he flattered himself he was on anequality with me, therefore he could take any amount of liberty. He tookadvantage of the unavoidable questions that belong to the making out of apassport, and showed a diabolical pleasure in tormenting la citoyennewho stood helplessly before him.

When it came to the description and the enumerating of my features, he wasmore obnoxious than I can express. Peering across the table to see whethermy eyes were brown or black, or my hair black or brown, he never lost anopportunity to make a fawning remark before writing it down. He describedmy teint as pâle; I felt pale, and think I must have looked very pale,for he said: "Vous êtes bien pâle, Madame. Voudriez-vous quelque chose àboire?" Possibly he may have meant to be kind; but I saw BORGIA writtenall over him. I refused his offer with effusion.

When he asked me my age, he said, insinuatingly, "Vous êtes bien jeune,
Madame, pour circuler seule ainsi dans Paris."

I answered, "Je ne suis pas seule, Monsieur. Mon mari [I thought it bestto tell this lie] m'attend dans la voiture de Monsieur Washburn et il doitêtre bien étonné de ma longue absence."

I considered this extremely diplomatic.

Turning to the man at the mantelpiece, he said, "Grousset, do you think weought to allow the citoyenne to leave Paris?"

Grousset (the man addressed) stepped forward and looked at Mr. Washburn'scard, saying something in an undertone to Rigault, which caused himinstantly to change his manner toward me (I don't know which was worse,his overbearing or his fawning manner).

"You must forgive me," he said, "if I linger over your visit here. Wedon't often have such luck, do we, Grousset?"

I thought I should faint!

Probably the man Grousset noticed my emotion, for he came to my rescue andsaid, politely, "Madame Moulton, j'ai eu l'honneur de vous voir à un bal àl'Hôtel de Ville l'année dernière."

I looked up with surprise. He was a very handsome fellow, and I rememberedquite well having seen him somewhere; but did not remember where. I washappy indeed to find any one who knew me and could vouch for me, and toldhim so. He smiled. "I venture to present myself to you, Madame. I amPascal Grousset. Can I be of any service to you?"

"Indeed you can," I answered, eagerly. "Please tell Monsieur Rigault togive me my passport; it seems to have been a colossal undertaking to getit." I preferred the Pascal G. to the Rascal R.

Grousset and Rigault had a little conversation together, and presto! mylonged-for passport lay before me to sign. No Elsa ever welcomed herLohengrin coming out of the clouds as I did my Lohengrin coming from themantelpiece.

I signed my name quickly enough; Rigault put the official seal on it, and,rising from his chair, politely handed it to me.

Before taking my leave of the now over-polite Prefect, I asked him howmuch there was to pay.

He courteously replied, "Rien, absolument rien," and added he was glad tobe of any service to me; and if there was anything more he could do, I hadonly to command.

I did not say that I thought he had done enough for one day, but I bowedhim good-by and turned to go out.

Mr. Pascal Grousset offered me his arm, begging to take me to my carriage.
The gendarmes threw open doors, and we retraced our steps through all the
different rooms until we reached the one where I had left Mademoiselle
W——, whom I expected to find waiting for me in agonizing anxiety.

But what did I see?

Mademoiselle sound asleep on the bench, bag, smile, and all, gazed at andguarded by the dreaded soldiers.

"I am afraid," said Pascal Grousset, "that you have been greatly annoyedthis morning. Your interview with the Prefect must have been most painfulto you!"

"I confess," I said, "it has never been my fate to have been placed injust such a situation, and I thank you, de tout mon coeur, for yourassistance. You certainly saved my life, for I doubt if I could have livedanother moment in that room."

"Perhaps more than your life, Madame; more than you imagine, at any rate."

As he put us in the carriage, he looked puzzled when he saw le mari Ihad said was waiting for me; but a smile of comprehension swept over hisface as he met my guilty glance. He apparently understood my reasons.

On reaching home, tired, exhausted, and oh! so hungry, we found Mr.Washburn. He and Mr. Moulton had been very anxious about me, picturing tothemselves all sorts of horrors, and when I told them what really hadhappened they felt that their anxieties had not been far from the truth.Mr. Washburn laughed at the subterfuges I had used and the lie I had told.They examined my passport as a great curiosity, and noticed it hadValable pour un an.

Mr. Washburn said, "Evidently they intend this sort of thing to go onforever."

23d of April.

Mrs. Moulton has decided to leave for Dinard, and starts the day after to-morrow.

We have been assured that the train would make connections as far at leastas Rennes; beyond that no one could tell whether they went regularly ornot.

Mrs. Moulton had procured a red billet de circulation with a date, awhite one without a date, Mr. Washburn's card, and different passes. Shewas certainly well prepared for any emergency. As there was only one daytrain, she was obliged to take that (it left al seven o'clock A.M.).

A desire to see some of her friends before her departure spurred Mrs.Moulton to invite them to dinner. Our friends are now so few and farbetween that it is not difficult to know whom to choose or where to findthem.

The result was a miscellaneous company, as you will see: Mr. Washburn,
Auber, Massenet, Beaumont, and Delsarte. Our family consisted of Mr. and
Mrs. Moulton, Henry, Mademoiselle Wissembourg, and myself.

Mrs. Moulton asked Henry to bring with him some green peas from Petit Valto eke out the chef's meager menu.

With the aid of a friendly officer, Henry managed to pick a "whole bushel"(he always exaggerates), which, with his toilet articles, completelyfilled his large sac de voyage. Besides this, he had a portmanteauwith his evening attire, and a package which Count Arco wished to send toParis.

Count Arco ordered out the "ancient and honorable relic" of our landau(the same I had used on the famous 18th of March) and the artilleryhorses, with their heavy dragoons, in order to deposit Henry and his bagsat the pontoon bridge, where a man was found to take them as far as thestation.

To divert himself while tramping along with his sac de voyage, Henryshelled the peas, casting the pods behind him, after the manner of TomThumb, never dreaming that the peas thus left to chum familiarly withhis toilet things might suffer from the contact and get a new flavor. Hewas surprised to see how the "bushel" had diminished in volume since itstarted.

Mrs. Moulton had promised to send the carriage to meet l'envoiextraordinaire; but Henry, finding none, started to walk toward home,followed by a porter carrying his extra baggage.

What was Henry's astonishment at seeing Louis drive out of the Hôtel deVille with two strange men in the coupé. Henry hailed Louis, who, thoughscared out of his wits, pulled up obediently, disregarding the angryvoices from inside. Henry opened the door and addressed the strangerspolitely, "Messieurs, this is my carriage; I beg you to alight."

"Par exemple!" cried the two, in chorus. "Who are you?"

"I happen to be the proprietor of the carriage," replied Henry, assumingan important air, "and if you decline to leave it I shall call the Sergentde Ville." Then turning to the porter, he told him to put the bags in thecoupé, which he did.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the two men. "Faites ça, mon bon! that would beamusing. Do you know who we are?"

Henry did not, and said he was not particularly anxious to know.

"This is Monsieur Félix Pyat, and I am his secretary. Here is a bon foryour carriage," handing Henry the card.

"Well," said Henry, pulling out his card, "here is my card, here are mypasses, and here [pointing to Louis] is my coachman!"

Félix Pyat said, "How do we know that this is your carriage?"

Henry acknowledged that at the moment he looked so little like the ownerof anything except the bag, in which the peas were rattling like bullets,that he forgave the doubt.

Louis was called from the box and the question was put to him. In ordinarymoments Louis would have mumbled and stuttered hopelessly; but he seemedto have been given overwhelming strength on this occasion, and surprisedHenry by confirming his words with an unction worthy of the great Solomonhimself. He waved his whip aloft, pointed to Henry, and putting his handon his heart (which I am sure was going at a tremendous pace) said, "Iswear that this is my master!"

No one but a Communard could have doubted him; but Félix Pyat no morebelieved Louis's oath than he did Henry's documents.

"Bien," said Pyat; "if it is true that you live in the Rue deCourcelles, we will leave you there and continue on our way."

Now followed the most spirited altercation, all talking at once, Henrytrying to get in the coupé, and the others refusing to get out.

"À la maison!" shouted Henry.

"À la Place Beauvais!" shouted the Communards. They continued giving thesecontradictory orders to poor, bewildered Louis until a crowd hadcollected, and they thought it better to stop quarreling. Henry enteredthe carriage, meekly taking his seat on the strapontin opposite theintruders, and thinking of the peas, which ought to have been in the potby this time, assented to be left at home, and ordered Louis to drive thetriumphant Communards to the Ministry of the Interior, Place Beauvais.

It would be difficult for one who did not know Louis to guess what hisstate of mind must have been. He was not of the kind they make heroes of;he was good, kind, and timid, though he was an ancien Zouave and hadfought in several battles (so he said). I always doubted these tales,and I still think Louis's loose, bulging trousers and the tassel of hisred cap were only seen from behind.

It was as good as a play to hear Louis's tragic account of yesterday, andit made your hair stand on end when he recounted how he had been stoppedin the Rue de Castiglione, how two fiery Communards had entered the coupéand ordered him to drive to the Hôtel de Ville, where Félix Pyat hadmounted the carriage. What must his account have been in the kitchen?

However, the principal thing was that the harassed peas were safe in thekitchen and in time to be cooked and figure on the menu as légumes(les petit* pois).

Our guests' faces beamed with satisfaction at the idea of theseprimeurs, and evidently anticipated great joy in eating them; butafter they had tasted them they laid down their forks and … meditated!The servant removed the plates with their primeurs, wondering howsuch wanton capriciousness could exist in this primeur-less Paris.Only Mr. Moulton ate them to the last pea. We—the initiated—knew wherethe peculiar taste of soap, tooth-wash, perfume, etc., came from! The peasdescended to the kitchen, and ascended again untouched to the hothouse,where they finished their wild and varied career. If they could havespoken, what tales they could have told! They had displaced the GermanArmy, they had aided and abetted the cause of the Commune, and they hadcost their bringer untold sums in pourboires, in order to furnish afew forkfuls for Mr. Moulton and a gala supper for the hens.

We had an excellent dinner: a potage printanier (from cans), cannedlobster, corned beef (canned), and some chickens who had known many sadmonths in the conservatory. An ice concocted from different things, andnamed on the menu glace aux fruits, completed this festin deBalthazar.

Mr. Moulton was obliged to don the obnoxious dress-coat, laid away duringthe siege in camphor, and smelling greatly of the same. He held in hishand La Gazette Officielle. The same shudder ran through us all. Itwas to be read to us after dinner! Coffee was served in the ballroom,which was dimly lighted.

Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman's eyes to read the fineprint of the Gazette? Alas! no. Mr Moulton's eyes were not the kindthat recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardlyhad we finished our coffee than out came the Gazette. We all listened,apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction;Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself toslumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years.

Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmuredto himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, hisprofound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the artof enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what hisgraceful language could become del bocca Americana!

Delsarte's idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers ofthe workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large aboutthe hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating fromthe same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; afancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if hehad a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on hiscalotte, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolutionof 1848.

Massenet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with hiseditor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. Afterthe Gazette we awoke to life, and Massenet played some of the "Poème deSouvenir," which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). Whata genius he is! Massenet always calls Auber le Maître, and Auber callshim le cher enfant.

Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers,and while he was at one piano Massenet put himself at the other (we havetwo in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wishedthey could have gone on forever.

Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, wecould have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris—in thehands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed,Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of.

Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing "Il pleut, il pleut,Bergère," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chanté toutl'été," and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of thefable, "Eh bien, dansez maintenant," he gave such a tragic shake to hishead that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hunglimply over his bosom.

I sang the "Caro Nome" of "Rigoletto," with Massenet's accompaniment.Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me onthe expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into myvoice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls.

He now felt he had not lived in vain.

It being almost midnight, our guests took their departure.

There were only two carriages before the door, Mr. Washburn's and Auber's.Mr. Washburn took charge of the now very sleepy Delsarte, who declaimed asepulchral bonsoir and disappeared, his redingote waving in the air.

The maître took the cher enfant, or rather the cher enfant led themaître out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The GazetteOfficielle had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubtbeing perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coatand pumps replaced by robe de chambre and slippers. Henry said the nextmorning he had had a bad night;… he had dreamt that the whole Germanarmy 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 hemight get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his album and pencilswith him, he did not accomplish much.

We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawingof him. The officer said in a low tone to me, "Is that the famous artistBeaumont?"

I replied that it was.

"I am so glad to have an opportunity to see him, as I have heard so muchof 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 youlike this?"

The officer answered in the most perfect French, "I shall always keep itas 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 officerto ask for it, and seemed annoyed. However, he made a hasty drawing andgave 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: "Ihave not profited much by this visit. I have given, but not taken anythingaway."

"But the experience," I ventured to say.

"Oh yes, the experience; but that I did not need."

In the evening we had one of our drowsy games of whist, made up ofCountess B——, our neighbor opposite, brought across the street in hersedan-chair (she never walks), Mr. Moulton, myself, and Beaumont makingthe sleepy fourth. Neither of our guests speaks English with anything likefacility, but they make frantic efforts to carry on the game in English,as Mr. Moulton has never learned the game in French and only uses Englishterms.

Mr. Moulton always plays with Countess B——, and I always play with
Beaumont; we never change partners.

This is the kind of game we play:

It takes Beaumont a very long time to arrange his cards, which he does ina unique way, being goaded on by Mr. Moulton's impatient "Well!" He picksout all the cards of one suit and he lays them downward on the table in apile; then he gathers them up and puts them between the third and fourthfingers of his left hand. With the next suit he does likewise, placingthem between the second and third fingers, and so on, until the grandfinale, when the fingers loosen and the cards amalgamate. During thisprocess his cards fall every few minutes on the floor, occasioning muchdelay, as they have all to be arranged again.

It is my deal; I turn up a heart. The Countess is on my left. We wait withimpatience for her to play, but she seems only to be contemplating hercards.

"Well!" says Mr. Moulton, impatiently.

We all say in unison, "Your play, Countess!"

The Countess: "Oh, what dreadful cards! I can never play. Oh," with asigh, "how dreadful!"

We are all very sorry for her. She has evidently wretched cards.

Long pause. "Your turn, Countess!" we all cry.

"What are trumps?" she asks.

We show her the trump card on the table and say together, "Hearts."

Another long pause.

She arranges her cards deliberately and then shuts them up like a fan.

"Your play, partner," says Mr. Moulton, tired out with waiting.

With a dismal wail, and looking about for sympathy, she plays the ace ofclubs.

Mr. Moulton gathers up the trick.

She has no idea that she has taken anything, but is quietly adjusting hercards again.

"Your turn, Countess!"

"What, my turn again?" She expresses the greatest surprise.

She: "What dreadful cards! Indeed, I cannot play."

Poor thing! That was probably her only good card, and we expected her nextwould be the two of spades. But no. She pulls out, with the air of amartyr, the ace of spades.

Mr. Moulton: "Well! that's not so bad."

Great astonishment on her part. She can't believe that she has actuallytaken a trick. She had hoped some one else would have played.

A long, fidgety silence follows.

All: "Your play, Countess!" She plays the queen of hearts.

This has no success, as I take it with my king.

Mr. Moulton: "Why did you play trumps?"

She: "Oh! was that trumps? I must take it back. Pray, let me take itback."

We all recover our cards. (My partner takes this occasion to drop some ofhis on the floor. He picks them up and arranges them again in order.)

"Your turn, Countess!" we cry, exhausted.

She: "What, again! Why does some one else not play?"

Then out comes the ace of diamonds.

Some one said, "You have all the aces."

She: "Oh! not all; I have not the ace of hearts."

Her partner, aghast, begs her not to tell us what her other cards are, andso the game proceeds to the bitter end.

There were other moments funny beyond words especially when Mr. Beaumont'sEnglish fails to cope with the situation and he will try to discuss thepoints where the Countess has failed. He says, "Did you not see he put hisking on your spade ace-spot?" and, "Madame, you played the third ofspades." And when we count honors, Beaumont will cover the table with hisgreat elbows and enumerate his: "I had the ass, the knight, and the dame."

I heard a suppressed chuckle from my father-in-law, and seemed to see avision of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza pass before me.

24th of April.

DEAR MAMA,—Auber sent a note early this morning by his coachman to ask meto lunch with him at ten-thirty o'clock (of course accompanied byMademoiselle, my aunt, as he calls her). The coachman says that his masteris not feeling well and longs to see a friend.

I am proud to be the friend he longs to see, and was only too happy toaccept. Mademoiselle W—— was equally happy, ready, as always, for anyexcursion where a good repast was in view, and of that we were sure, asAuber's chef is renowned, and is so clever that, though the market islimited, he can make something delicious out of nothing.

Louis appeared in a short jacket and a straw hat, looking rather waggishand very embarrassed to present himself in such a costume.

Driving through the Boulevard Clichy and endless out-of-the-way streets,we finally reached Auber's hotel, which is in the Rue St. Georges.

Louis was glad to find safety under the porte-cochère, and to see hisbosom companion, Auber's butler, into whose arms he fell with joy.

Auber came to the door to welcome us, seeming most grateful that we hadcome, and led us into the salon. There is only one way to get into thesalon, and that is either through the dining-room or the bedroom; we wentthrough the bedroom, as the other was decked for the feast.

I have never seen Auber look so wretched and sad as he did to-day; I couldhardly believe it was the same Auber I have always seen so gay and full oflife and spirits.

I brought a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley, which Louis had gatheredin the all-producing hothouse.

"Merci, merci," he said. "Les fleurs! C'est la vie parfumée." Waiting forthe breakfast to be served, he showed us about in his apartment. In thesalon, rather primly furnished, stood the grand piano. The bookshelvescontained Cherubini's (his master) and his own operas, and his belovedBach. A table in the middle of the room, covered with photographs andengravings, completed son salon de garçon.

The bedroom was also very primitive: his wooden bed, with its traditionalcovering of bourre; a chiffonier containing his curios, royal presents,and costly souvenirs; his writing-table; and his old piano, born in 1792,on which he composed all his operas.

The piano certainly looked very old; its keys were yellow as amber, andAuber touched them with tenderness, his thin, nervous fingers, with theirwell-kept nails, rattling on them like dice in a box.

He said: "Le piano est presqu'aussi vieux que moi. Que de tracas nousavons eu ensemble!"

Breakfast was announced, and we three took our places at the beautifullyarranged table. I wondered where the butler had found flowers and fruitand écrevisses. Mademoiselle and I ate with an astounding appetite;but Auber, who had not eaten a déjeuner for thirty years, contentedhimself with talking.

And talk he did, like a person hungry and thirsty to talk. He told usabout Scribe, for whom he had an unlimited admiration. "I wish you hadknown him," he said; "he was the greatest librettist who ever existed. Ionly had to put the words on the piano, put on my hat, and go out. When Icame back the music was all written—the words had done it alone." ("Jen'avais qu'à mettre les paroles sur le pupitre, prendre mon chapeau etsortir. Quand je revenais la musique était toute écrite, les parolesl'avaient faite toutes seules.")

He related incidents connected with his youth. His father was a bankervery well off, rich even, and had destined Auber to be a banker, likehimself; but when Auber went to London to commence his clerkship he foundhe had no vocation for finance, and began to devote himself to music andcomposition. He was thirty-six years old when he wrote his first opera. Hetold us that his first ones were so bad that he had given them to theConservatoire pour encourager les commençants.

Breakfast had long since finished; but dear old Auber rambled on, and
Mademoiselle and I sat listening.

He said he was going to leave all his music to me in his will. I thankedhim, and replied nothing would give me greater pleasure than to havesomething which had belonged to him.

"Je ne regarde jamais mes partitions sans être gagné par la tristesse etsans penser que de morceaux à retoucher! En composant, je n'ai jamaisconnu d'autre muse que l'ennui."

"On ne le dirait pas," said Mademoiselle, wanting to join theconversation. "Votre musique est si gaie, si pleine d'entrain."

"Vous trouvez! Vous êtes bien bonne. Je ne sais comment cela arrive. Iln'y a pas de motifs parmi ceux qu'on trouve heureux, que je n'ai pas écritentre deux baîllements. Je pourrais," he went on, "vous montrer telpassage où ma plume a fait un long zigzag parce que mes yeux se sontfermés et ma tête tombait sur la partition. On dirait, n'est ce pas? qu'ily a des somnambules lucides."

We thought Auber seemed very fatigued, and we soon left him, driving backthe same way we came, and reached home without any adventures.

7th of May.

I received this morning, by a mysterious messenger, a curious document; itlooks like a series of carriage-wheels, but it is a cipher from PrinceMetternich, who is in Bordeaux, and is dated the 1st of May. It took me along time to puzzle it out: "Vous conseille de partir; pire viendra.Pauline à Vienne; moi triste et tourmenté."

Very good advice, but rather difficult to follow now.

Never has Paris led such a sober life; there is no noise in the almostempty and dimly lighted streets; there are no drunkards, and, strange tosay, one hears of no thefts. There are, I believe, one or two smalltheaters open, most of the small cafés, and a great many wine-shops. Thesoldiers slink about, looking ashamed of their shabby uniforms and raggedappearance.

Thiers has done all in his power to conciliate the different parties, buthas now concluded that Paris must be conquered by the troops ofVersailles. Every day there comes more disturbing news. How will it allend? When shall we get out of this muddle? En attendant, we live ina continual fright.

A note came yesterday from Mr. Washburn (I don't know if he is in Paris ornot). He writes: "Nothing could be worse than the present state ofaffairs. I wish you were out of Paris; hope you are well," etc.

If we could get a message to him, we would tell him that we are wellenough, and have enough to eat; that Mademoiselle Wissembourg and Itremble all day; but that Mr. Moulton has not enjoyed himself so muchsince the last revolution.

Slippers all day if he likes.

May 8th.

Though I have so much time on my hands (I never have had so much), Ireally have not the heart to write of all the horrors we hear of and theanxieties of our daily life. Besides, you will probably have heard,through unprejudiced newspapers, all that is happening here, and know thetrue facts before this dismal letter reaches you. And who knows if lettersleave Paris regularly in the chaotic state of disorder and danger we arenow in?

I cannot write history, because I am living in it. I can only tell you thenews which Louis gathers when he does his errands, coming home with thewildest tales, of which we can only believe the half.

I have read somewhere that some one lived "in a dead white dawn ofthought." I have not the slightest idea what "a dead white dawn ofthought" can be (I have so little imagination); but whatever it is, I feelas if I was living in it now. I don't remember in all my life to havestagnated like this.

We are glad Mrs. Moulton left Paris when she did, and is now in a bourneof safety at Dinard, taking my place with the children while I take hersin the Rue de Courcelles.

This is no sacrifice on my part; the existence we are leading nowinterests me intensely, being so utterly different from anything I haveever known, and I do not regret having this little glimpse into theunknown.

I cannot go to the ambulances, as we (Mademoiselle and I) do not dare towalk, and driving is out of the question.

I have not seen Auber for many days; Beaumont has not been here either,and we do not know where he is.

They still go on issuing some official newspapers, though whether whatthey contain is true, or how far the imaginations of the editors havelured them into the paths of fiction, we cannot tell. If we live throughthis débâcle I count on history to tell us what we really have beenliving through. However, truth or fiction, I am thankful that we have thenewspapers, for how would I ever have a moment's sleep if I did not listento Mr. Moulton's intoning the Moniteur and the Journal des Débats (theFigaro has been suppressed) to us, and we did not have our three-handeddrowsy whist to doze over.

May 9th.

While we were at breakfast this morning the servant came rushing in, paleand trembling, and announced to us that pillage had commenced in theBoulevard Haussmann, just around the corner, and that the mob was comingtoward our house. We flew to the window, and, sure enough, there we saw amass of soldiers collected on the other side of the street, in front ofthe Princess Mathilde's palace, gesticulating and pointing over at us.

We thought our last day had come; certainly it did look like a crisis ofsome kind. We gazed blankly at one another. Mademoiselle disappeared, toseek refuge, I fancy, between the mattresses of her bed, and the smile andthe urbane language with which she was prepared to face this emergency (sooften predicted by her) disappeared with her.

The mob crossed the street, howling and screaming, and on finding the gatelocked began to shake it. The frightened concierge, already barricadedin his lodge, took care not to show himself, which infuriated the riotouscrowd to such an extent that they yelled at the top of their lungs to havethe gate opened.

Mr. Moulton sent a scared servant to order the still invisible conciergeto open not only one gate, but all three. He obeyed, trembling and quakingwith fear. The Communists rushed into the courtyard, and were about toseize the unhappy concierge, when Mr. Moulton, seeing that no one elsehad the courage to come forward, went himself, like the true American heis,… out on to the perron, and I went with him. His first words (inpure Angle-Saxon), "Qu'est-ce que vous voolly?" made the assembled crowdgiggle.

The leader pushed forward, and, presenting a paper with the official sealof the Comité de Transport, demanded, in the name of the Commune(requisitioned, they call it), everything we had in the way of animals.

Mr. Moulton took the paper, deliberately adjusted his spectacles, and,having read it very leisurely (I wondered how those fiery creatures hadthe forbearance to stay quiet, but they did; I think they were hypnotizedby my father-in-law's coolness), he said, in his weird French, "Vousvoolly nos animaux!" which sounded like nos animose. The crowd grinnedwith delight. His French saved the situation. I felt that they would notdo us any great harm now.

Mr. Moulton fumbled in his pocket, and, judging from the time he took andthe depths into which he dived, one would have thought he was going tobring out corruption enough to bribe the whole French nation. But he onlyproduced a gold piece, which he flourished in front of the spokesman, andasked if money would be any inducement to leave us les animose. But thenot-to-be-bribed Communard put his hand on his heart, and said, in a toneworthy of Delsarte, "Nous sommes des honnêtes gens, Monsieur," at which myfather-in-law permitted himself to smile. I thought him very brave.

Raising his voice to an unusually high pitch, he cried, "Je ne peux pasvous refiuser le cheval, mais [the pitch became higher] je refiuse levache (I cannot refuse to give you the horse; but I refuse the cow)."

The men before us were convulsed with laughter. Then Mr. Moulton gave theorder to bring out the horse, but not the cow. The official turned tome. "Madame," he said, "you have a cow, and my orders are to take all youranimals. Please send for the cow."

"It is true, Monsieur," I answered, with a gentle smile (like the onereposing under the mattress), "that we have a cow; but we have thepermission from your Government to keep it."

"Which government?" he asked.

"The French Government. Is that not yours?"

The man could not find anything to answer, and turned away mumbling,
"Comme vous voulez," which applied to nothing at all, and addressed Mr.
Moulton again, "Nous avons des ordres, Monsieur!" But Mr. Moulton
interrupted him, "Ça m'est égal, je refiuse le vache."

Some one in the crowd called out, "Gardez le vache!" This was receivedwith a burst of applause. I think that these men, rough as they were,could not but admire the plucky old gentleman who stood there so calmlylooking at them over his spectacles. The servants were all huddledtogether behind the glass windows in the antichambre, scared out oftheir wits, while the terrible Communards were choking with laughter.

It was heart-rending to see poor Louis's grief when he led out the dear,gentle horse we loved so fondly; the tears rolled down his cheeks, as theydid down mine, and I think a great many of the ruffians around us had atear of sympathy for our sorrow, for the merriment of the few momentsbefore faded suddenly from their pale and haggard faces.

When Louis leaned his kind old face against the nose of his companion ofthe stable he sobbed aloud, and when he gave the bridle over to the manwho was to take the horse away he moaned an adieu, saying, "Be good toher!"

I went down the steps of the perron (the men politely making way for me)and kissed my poor darling Medjé, and passed my hand over her soft neckbefore she left us for her unknown fate. She seemed to understand oursorrow, for, as she was being led out of the courtyard, she turned herhead toward us with a patient, inquiring look, as if to say, "What does itall mean?"

I hope she will be returned when "no longer needed," as they promise, and
Louis will have the joy of seeing her again.

The now-subdued mob left us, filing out quietly through the gates; theyhad come in like roaring lions, but went out like the meekest of lambs.

We returned sorrowfully to the salon. I was so unstrung that Mademoiselle,who in the meantime had returned, administered a cup of camomile tea torestore my nerves.

After the fright caused by this last réquisitionnement, two of theservants thought it expedient to find safer quarters in the center ofParis, and to live in seclusion, rather than run the risk of beingrequisitioned themselves.

The forts Mont Valérien, Montrouge, Vanves, and Issy keep up an incessantfiring. We would not be surprised if at any moment a bomb reached us, butso far we have escaped this calamity. The "Reds" are fighting all aroundParis with more or less success. If one could believe what is written inthe Le Journal de la Commune, one would say they were triumphant allalong the line. We have just heard that General Bergeret has beenarrested, no one knows why, except that he did not succeed in his lastsortie, and had then by displeased his colleagues generally. It does nottake more than that to arrest people in these days.

The good Archbishop of Paris (Darboy), the curé of La Madeleine(Monseigneur Duguerry), also President Bonjean, and the others who werearrested on the 10th of May, have been kept in Mazas Prison ever since. Isaw a letter of marvelous forbearance and resignation, written by theArchbishop to the Sisters of the St. Augustine Convent; and the belovedcuré of the Madeleine beseeches people to pray for order to be restored.Poor martyrs! I hope that their prison will not prove to be theantechamber of the scaffold; as Rochefort says, "Mazas est l'antichambrede l'échafaud."

It appears that Félix Pyat really did give his demission as a member ofthe Commune, but his colleagues would not accept it.

10th May.—While Mr. Moulton was reading this morning's news to uswe were startled by a terrible crash. We were paralyzed with terror, andfor a moment speechless, fearing that all we had dreaded was about to berealized. After somewhat recovering our equilibrium, we sent for Louis tofind out what dreadful thing had happened.

Louis appeared with the concierge, both trembling from head to foot, andannounced that a portion of a bomb which had fallen and exploded near ushad come through the roof, shattering many windows and causing greathavoc. On further examination of the disaster we were greatly relieved tohear that it was only a question of a damaged roof, windows, and masonry.No one was killed or even wounded; but all were so completely frightenedthat no one dares to sleep on the upper floor. Consequently we have moveddown on the drawing-room floor, and have abandoned the upper stories tofuture bombs. Mr. Moulton is located in the salon; Mademoiselle has takenthe salon jaune, and I the boudoir. Louis has improvised a bedroom inthe small dining-room, that he may be near us at night if we should needhim. The other servants sleep in the basem*nt.

Our family is now reduced to Mr. Moulton, Mademoiselle, Louis, my maid,and the cook. Louis has proved himself invaluable. He is the man of allwork. After milking the cow and doing his farming (in the conservatory) inthe early morning, he waits at table, does errands, and gathers whatevernews there is in the neighborhood, helps in the kitchen, and aids Mr.Moulton in his toilet and into his slippers. He is never tired; is alwaysready, early in the morning and late at night, to do anything required ofhim. He fills all gaps.

The untiring hens have made their nests in obscure corners in the hothouseand dream serenely of future posterity, while the one co*ck scratches fortired worms to provide for their repasts. I go every morning afterbreakfast with a little offering of scraps to add to their meager meals.

It is one of my few occupations.

Louis has succeeded in some of his agricultural schemes, and has raidedmushrooms, radishes, and watercresses, which appear quite a luxury incontrast to our usual canned things, and almost make us forget otherprivations.

This farming of Louis's in the hothouse goes to prove how an unnecessarypalm-garden in time of peace can be transformed into a useful kitchengarden in time of war. Louis expends the same energy and water that heused in washing his carriages, much to the detriment of the once finegreenhouse.

The days are very monotonous. I never imagined a day could have so manyhours. I, who have always been over-busy, and have never found the dayslong enough to do all I wanted to do, pass the most forlorn hourslistening and waiting and wondering what will happen next. I wait and waitall through the sleepless nights. I am so nervous I cannot sleep. I do noteven take off my clothes.

I have my writing-table put in the ball-room, and here I sit and writethese sad letters to you. I play the piano; but I have not the heart tosing, as you may imagine.

We know that there are many tragedies going on about us, and we hear,through Louis, awful things; but we only believe the half of what he tellsus.

May 11th.

The Minister of Finance has spent in a month twenty-six millions for thewar expenses alone.

My two friends, Pascal Grousset and (Rascal) Rigault, spent for theirmenus plaisirs nearly half a million, whereas Jourde, who is Minister ofFinance, and could take all the money he liked from the banks, lives inthe same modest apartment, and his wife still continues to take in washingas of old, showing that he, at least, is honest among thieves.

Grousset's appeal to the large cities of France is very theatrical. Hereproaches them with their lukewarmness and their platonic sympathy, andcalls them aux armes, as in the "Marseillaise."

We had a very sad experience yesterday. At seven o'clock the conciergewas awakened from his slumbers, which (if one can judge from the repeatedefforts at his bell of persons who come before breakfast) must be of thesweetest and most profound nature.

On cautiously peeping out, he saw a poor fellow leaning against the gatein a seemingly exhausted condition; he had been wounded, and begged to beallowed to come inside our courtyard. The concierge, who thinks itwise to be prudent, consulted with Louis; but neither dared do anythinguntil Mr. Moulton had given the necessary orders. Louis ran about to wakeup the family, and Mr. Moulton told the porter to take the man directly tothe stables and to go for a doctor. The wounded man begged to see apriest, and Louis was despatched to bring one. Securing a doctor seemed tobe a great undertaking. The concierge had had cramps in the night(so he said), which would necessitate his remaining at home, and made somany excuses that Mr. Moulton lost patience and declared he would gohimself; but this I would not hear of his doing alone, and insisted upongoing with him. Mademoiselle, issuing from her room, appeared in her lilacdressing-gown, holding a pocket-handkerchief in one hand and a smelling-bottle to her nose with the other. She was told to keep watch over theinvalid while we were absent. Mr. Moulton and I walked to the Faubourg St.Honoré, to our apothecary, who gave us the name of the nearest doctor. Itwas not pleasant, to say the least, to be in the streets. We were in thehabit of hearing bombs and shells, so that was no novelty; but to see themwhizzing over our heads was a new sensation, and not an agreeable one. Wefound a doctor, a most amiable gentleman, who, although he had been up allnight, was quite ready to follow us, and we hurried back to the Rue deCourcelles, where we found Mademoiselle seated on a water-pail outside thestables and looking the picture of woe. Her idea of keeping vigil!

The doctor made a hasty examination, and was preparing the bandages whenLouis arrived with the priest. I left them and went into the house to makesome tea, which I thought might be needed; but my father-in-law came inand said that the man had gone to sleep.

Later, about two o'clock, Louis told us that all was over; the poor fellowhad received the last sacraments, had turned over on his side, and hadbreathed his last. We sent for the ambulance; but it was five o'clockbefore they took him away.

It made us very sad all day to think that death had entered our gates.

15th May.—Thiers's house in the Rue St. Georges was pillaged to-day bythe mob, who howled like madmen and hurled all sorts of curses andmaledictions on luckless Thiers, who has done nothing wrong, and certainlytried to do good.

Auber, who lives in the same street, must have seen and heard all that wasgoing on. How he must have suffered!

[Illustration: PLACE VENDÔME AFTER THE FALL OF THE COLUMN]

16th May.—The Column Vendôme fell to-day; they have been workingsome days to undermine it at the base of the socle. Every one thought itwould make a tremendous crash, but it did not; it fell just where theyintended it to fall, toward the Rue de la Paix, on some fa*gots placed toreceive it. They were a long time pulling at it; three or four pulleys,and as many ropes, and twenty men tugging with all their might—etvoilà. The figure that replaced the Little Corporal (which is safesomewhere in Neuilly) came to earth in a cloud of dust, and the famouscolumn lay broken in three huge pieces.

I inclose a ticket which Mr. Lemaire obtained somehow, and which, as yousee, permitted him to circulate librement in the Place Vendôme:

[Illustration]

I think it is strange that Auber does not let us hear from him. I fear hisheart is broken, like the column.

The weather is heavenly. The two chestnut-trees in our front courtyard arein full flower; the few plants in the greenhouse are all putting out buds.Where shall we be when the buds become flowers?

Last year at this time it was the height of the giddiest of giddy seasons.
One can hardly believe it is the same Paris.

My father-in-law feels very bad that I did not leave when I still had thechance. So do I,… but now it is too late. I must stay till the bitterend, and no doubt the end will be bitter: battle, murder, and suddendeath, and all the things we pray against in the Litany.

Dombrowski has failed in his sortie to St. Cloud.

18th May.—It seems that the Communards wish all France to adopt theirgentle methods, and they believe and hope that Communism will reignsupreme over the country.

Rigault, to prove what an admirable government France has, yesterdayissued the decree to arrest a mass of people. No one knows exactly why,except that he wishes to show how great his power is. He wants the Communeto finish in fire and flame as a funeral pile. I hope he will be on thetop of it, like Sardanapalus, and suffer the most. Horrible man!

I received a letter from Mr. Mallet this morning, inclosing an invitationto assist at a concert given by all the musiques militaires à Parison the Place de la Concorde, and offering a ticket for two places on theterrace of the Tuileries. The idea of these creatures on the brink ofannihilation, death, and destruction giving a concert! If it were not sotragic it would really be laughable.

DEAR LADY,—I wish I could bring you this extraordinary document de viva persona; but I do not like to leave the embassy, even for a short time. Lascelles and I are well, but very anxious. You will notice that this invitation is for the 21st. Our friends evidently think we will be pleasantly attuned to music on that day. They are as mad as March hares; they will be asking us to dance at Mazas next…. Hoping you are not as depressed as we are, Yours, E. MALLET.

Just as I had finished reading the above we heard a tremendous explosion.
Louis said it was l'École Militaire, which was to be blown up to-day.
What are we coming to?

Louis and I ventured to go up to the third story, and we put our heads outof one of the small windows. We saw the bombs flying over our heads likesea-gulls. All the sky was dimmed with black smoke, but we could not seeif anything was burning, though we hear that the Tuileries is on fire andall the public buildings are being set fire to.

An organized mob of pétroleurs and pétroleuses receive two francs aday for pouring petroleum about and then setting fire. How awful!

Louis assures us that they will not come near us, as their only idea is todestroy public property. My father-in-law says the fever of destructionmay seize them, and they might pillage the fine houses and set fire tothem. He is having everything of value, like jewels, silver, and hisprecious bric-à-brac, carried down to the cellar, where there is an ironvault, and has showed us all how to open it in case of a disaster.

May 21st. (Sunday evening)—The Versaillais entered Paris by the Pointdu Jour, led by gallant Gallifet.

May 22d.—Rigault gave the order that all the hostages (otages) wereto be shot. Rigault wrote the order himself. It does not bear any of thefantastic seals they are so fond of, and of which they have an incrediblequantity. It has been written on a paper (une déclaration d'expédition duch*emin de fer d'Orléans). Probably he was trying to get away. It was thelast order he gave, and the last fuse to be used to set fire to thefuneral pile.

This proclamation, of which I give an exact copy, will give you a littleidea of what this horrible brute is capable of:

Floréal, an 79 [the way they date things in republics]. Fusillez l'Archevêque et les otages; incendiez les Tuileries et le Palais Royal, et repliez-vous sur la rue Germain-des-Prés.

Procureur de la Commune,

Ici tout va bien. RAOUL RIGAULT.

In the evening of the 22d the victims—forty of them—the good Darboy,Duguerry, Bonjean, and others—were piled into a transport-wagon with onlya board placed across, where they could sit, and were taken to the placeof execution.

The Archbishop seemed suffering; probably the privations he had enduredhad weakened him. Bonjean said to him, "Lean on my arm, it is that of agood friend and a Christian," and added, "La religion d'abord, la justiceensuite." As soon as one name was called a door opened and a prisonerpassed out—the Archbishop went first; they descended the dark and narrowsteps one by one. When they were placed against the wall Bonjean said,"Let us show them how a priest and a magistrate can die."

Rigault ordered their execution two hours after they were taken; and whensome one ventured a remonstrance he curtly replied, "Nous ne faisons pasde la légalité, nous faisons de la révolution." Some ruffian in the mobcried out the word "liberté," which reached Darboy's ears, and he said,"Do not profane the word of liberty; it belongs to us alone, because wedie for it and for our faith." This sainted man was the first to be shot.He died instantly; but President Bonjean crossed his arms and, standingerect, stared full in the faces of his assassins with his brave eyesfastened on theirs. This seemed to have troubled them, for of the nineteenballs they fired not one touched his head—they fired too low—but all hisbones were broken. The defiant look stayed on his face until the coupde grâce (a bullet behind his ear) ended this brave man's life. Thesedetails are too dreadful. I will spare you, though I know many more andworse.

Dombrowski had a slight advantage over l'Amiraut the other day, whichpuffed them all up with hope; but how foolish to think that anything canhelp now!

May 23d.—Now they have all lost their heads, and are at their wits'end. There are thirty thousand artillery and more cannon than they knowwhat to do with.

Everything is in a muddle; you can imagine in what a fearful state ofanxiety we live. The only thing we ask ourselves now is, When will thevolcano begin to pour out its flames?

If the troops should come in by the Arc de Triomphe and fight their waythrough Paris by the Champs-Élysées and the Boulevard there would not bemuch hope for us, as we would be just between the two fires.

May 25th.—The Arc de Triomphe and the Champ de Mars were capturedto-day, and the fighting in the streets has commenced. They are fightinglike mad in the Faubourg St. Honoré. When I open the door of the vestibuleI can hear the yelling and screaming of the rushing mob; it is dreadful,the spluttering of the fusillades and the guns overpower all other noises.We hope deliverance is near at hand; but who knows how long before we havepeace and quiet again?

May 28th.—MacMahon has stormed the barricades and has entered Paris,taking fifty thousand prisoners. Gallifet has ordered thousands to beshot.

We are rescued from more horrors. Thank God! these days of trembling andfear are over.

Pascal Grousset was killed on the barricades. I am thankful to say thatRaoul Rigault has also departed this world. Courbet, Regnaud, a promisingyoung painter, and how many shall we know of afterward, have been shot.

We hear that Auber became quite crazy and wandered out on the ramparts,and was killed with the soldiers. He deserved a better fate, my dear oldfriend! I am sure his heart was broken, and that that day we breakfastedwith him was not his first but his last jour de bonheur.

Seventy-two days of Communism has cost France 850,000,000 francs.

DINARD, June 18, 1871.

DEAR MOTHER,—Our peaceful life here is a great contrast to the bombs ofpoor dilapidated Paris. I have still the screams and bursting shells ofthe Faubourg St. Honoré in my ears.

When I wrote of Strakosch's persisting in his idea of my singing inconcerts, I did not dream that I should be telling you that I havesuccumbed to his tempting and stupendous proposition. It is true that Ihave said yes, and vogue la galère!

And the most curious thing is that the whole family sitting in councilhave urged me to do it.

"Why not?" said Mr. Moulton, making mental calculations. "I would, if Iwere you," said Mrs. Moulton, overflowing with enthusiasm.

"I agree," said Charles, only seeing the fun of a new experience.

"But," I urged, "I doubt if I can stand on my own merits. Singing inpublic as an amateur is one thing, and singing as an artist is another."This wise saying was scorned by the council.

I have ordered some fine dresses from Worth, and if my public don't likeme they can console themselves with the thought that a look at my clothesis worth a ticket.

Well, the fatal word has gone forth; I shall probably regret it, but it istoo late now.

Therefore, dear mother, please break the news gently to the family and thegenealogical tree, whose bark, I hope, is worse than its bite.

We leave for America in September. Strakosch goes before, "to work it up,"he says.

NEW YORK, October.

MY DEAR MOTHER-IN-LAW,—Don't send any more letters to the Barlows'. Wethought that it was better not to stay with them (pleasant as it was) anylonger. There was such a commotion in that quiet house, such ringing ofbells and running about. The servants were worn out attending to me and myvisitors.

I don't know where to begin to tell you about this wonderful escapade ofours. I call it my "bravura act." It is too exciting! I copy a letter justreceived from Strakosch, in answer to a letter of mine, to show you whatthe process of "working up" is. He writes: "You wonder at your bigaudiences. The reason is very simple. In the first place, people know thatyou are thought to be the best amateur singer in Paris—'La Diva duMonde'—besides being a favorite in Parisian society, and that you havenot only a beautiful voice, but also that you have beautiful toilettes.This is a great attraction. In the second place, I allow (as a greatprivilege) the tickets to be subscribed for; the remaining ones arebought at auction. You see, in this way the bids go 'way up…. I amglad I secured Sarasate to supplement," etc.

We have taken a suite of rooms in the Clarendon Hotel, so as to be nearthe opera-house, where I go to practise with the orchestra. You cannotimagine how intense the whole thing is.

To feel that I can hold a great audience, like the one that greeted me thefirst night, in my hand, and to know that I can make them laugh or crywhenever I please—to see the mass of upturned faces—is an inspiringsensation. The applause bewildered me at first, and I was fearfullyexcited; but one gets used to all things in the end. My songs, "Belraggio" (Rossini), "Voi che sapete" (Mozart), and "La Valse de Pardon dePloërmel" (Meyerbeer), were all encored and re-encored.

I said to Strakosch, "I can't go on forever, tripping on and off the stagelike that!" He answered, laconically, "Well, you see people have paidmuch for their tickets, and they want their money's worth."

I said, "I wish the tickets cost less."

The flowers (you should have seen them!) were mostly what they call here"floral tributes" (what you would call des pièces montées), and werebrought in by a procession of ushers and placed on the stage. I do notmention the quantities of bouquets handed up to me!

One "floral tribute" received an ovation as it was borne up the aisle byfour men, and hauled up on to the stage by a man who came from the sidescenes. It was a harp made entirely of flowers, about six feet high. Itmade quite a screen for me as I went in and out. The card of the harp wasbrought to me, and I read, "H. P. Stalton, 'Asleep in Jesus,' NorthConway." I had no idea what it meant, but mama remembered that some yearsago, when she and I were traveling in the White Mountains, we stoppedovernight at the little town of North Conway. At the hotel we heard that alady had died, and her son was terribly grieved. There was to be a funeralservice the next morning in the parlor of the inn. I asked, "Do you thinkthat I might sing something?" "Of course, any music would be welcome,"was the answer. So I chose the hymn, "Asleep in Jesus," which I sang whenthe time came. As there was nothing but an old piano, I preferred to singwithout accompaniment. I was very much affected, and I suppose my voiceshowed my emotion, because other people were equally affected. As for theyoung man, he knelt on the floor and put his hands over his face andsobbed out loud. Poor fellow, my heart bled for him!

I sang the hymn through with difficulty. The last verse I sangpianissimo and very slowly. The silence was painful; you could haveheard a pin drop. The whole scene was very emotional, and I rememberfeeling that I never wanted to go through such a thing again. The youngman had not forgotten, after all these years, either the song or thesinger. Hence the beautiful harp of flowers to thank me. I should haveliked to have seen him, to thank him.

There is a very sad, pathetic, and patriotic song called "Tender and True"by a composer, Alfred Pease, which I sing. Strakosch said, "You must havein your répertoire something American." This song is about a youngsoldier who takes "a knot of ribbon blue" from his ladylove, and who dieson the battle-field with the knot of ribbon on his breast. When I sing"the flag draped over the coffin lid" the whole audience is dissolved intears. The women weep openly; the men hide behind their opera-glasses andtry to blow their noses noiselessly between the verses.

I always finish with "Beware!" and Charles always accompanies me, whichpleases him very much. He thinks that American audiences are veryappreciative, because they stand up and clap and the women wave theirhandkerchiefs.

I tell him they stand up because the next thing they are going to do is togo out.

WORCESTER, December, 1871.

DEAR MOTHER,—Thanks for your letter. I had hoped to have received betternews of Charles.

When he left Thursday he did not look well, but I thought it was owing tothe excitement and late hours and the irregular life we have been leading.He wanted to go to Cambridge, where he thought that he could take bettercare of himself. I would have gone with him, but I felt that I could notleave Strakosch and Worcester in the lurch.

If I don't receive a reassuring telegram from you, I shall start offwithout delay.

I was dreadfully nervous and unstrung, as you will see, when I tell youhow I blundered. I do not like singing in oratorio. Getting up and sittingdown all the time, holding and singing from a book, losing my place andhaving to find it in a hurry, is not what I like. However, I got on verywell at first, but there is a place in the score where three angels comeforward and sing a trio without accompaniment. Then the soprano (me) stepsin front and sings, without a helping note: "Hail, Hail, O Lord God ofHosts!" The orchestra and chorus take up the same phrase after me.

I sang boldly enough, "Hail, Hail, O Lord God of Hosts!" but suddenly feltcold shivers down my back when Zerrahn tapped his baton on his stand,thereby stopping all further proceedings, and turning to me said, in a lowwhisper, "A half-tone lower."

Good gracious, how could I find the right note! First I had to rememberthe last tone I had sung, then I had to transpose it in my head, all in aninstant. It was a critical moment.

Suppose I did not hit the right note! The whole orchestra and the two-hundred-man-strong chorus would come thundering after me—the orchestraon the right key and the chorus following in my footsteps.

I turned cold and hot, and my knees trembled under me. You may imaginewhat a relief it was when I heard things going on as if nothing hadhappened. I had struck the right note! And I finished the oratoriowithout further disaster. I do not think that any one in the audienceremarked anything wrong.

I said to Zerrahn, after: "Could you not have helped me? Could you nothave given me the note?"

"No," he answered. "Impossible! I could not ask the nearest violinist toplay the note, and I could not trust myself to find it. I was as nervousas you were."

[Mrs. Moulton was called to Cambridge the next day. Mr. Moulton had diedsuddenly.]

CUBA, HAVANA, January, 1873.

DEAR MAMA,—We left New York in a fearful blizzard. It was snowing,hailing, blowing, and sleeting; in fact, everything that the elementscould do they did on that particular day. We were muffled up to our earsin sealskin coats, furs, boas, and so forth, and were piloted over the wetand slippery deck to our stateroom on the upper deck, which we wished hadbeen on the under deck, as it was continually washed by the "wild waves."

We knew pretty well "what the wild waves were saying"; at least Laura did,and they kept on saying it until well into the next day.

I being an old sailor (not in years but in experience), as I had crossedthe Atlantic several times, felt very superior on this occasion, andlooked down without sympathy on the maiden efforts of my suffering sister;and, having dressed, goaded her almost to distraction to get up and dolikewise, which she obstinately refused to do.

After ordering breakfast I ventured out on deck, to find myself alone,among deserted camp-stools. I realized then that the others preferred"rocking in the cradle of the deep" in their berths and in the privacy oftheir cabins. I myself felt very shaky as I stumbled about on the deckholding on to the rails, and I, hurrying back to the haven of mystateroom, happened to meet the struggling steward endeavoring to balancethe tray containing the breakfast I had ordered, and to make his waythrough my door.

The steward, the tray, and I all collided. The result was disastrous: thefood made a bee-line for the ceiling, the drinkables flooded the alreadywet floor and our shoes, while cups, saucers, plates, and dishes werescattered to fragments.

All that day we and every one were dreadfully sick; but what a contrastthe next day was! A hot, tropical sun blazed down on us, the awnings wereput up, the ladies appeared in lighter costumes, the men in straw hats andthin jackets. How odious our warm wraps and rugs seemed! And howcompletely our discomforts of the day before had disappeared! Laura hadforgotten her miseries, and was already planning another sea-trip, andeagerly scanning the menu for dinner, to which she did ample justice.

The third day was still hotter; parasols, summer dresses, and fans madetheir appearance, and at four o'clock we saw Morro Castle and thelighthouse; and we steamed (literally, for we were so hot) up theexquisite harbor, where white Havana lay like a jewel on the breast of thewater.

Hot! It must have been one hundred and ninety in the shade—if there hadbeen any; but there was none. The glare of the whiteness of the city andthe reflection on the water, the air thick with perfumes, gave us atropical tinge, and made us shudder to think what we should have to endurebefore we could rest in the hotel, which we hoped would be cool.

Young Isnaga, who has just come from Harvard College, where I knew him,and who was now returning to his native land to help his father on theplantation, served us as a guide; in fact, he was our Baedeker. He told usthat all those hundreds of little boats with coverings like hen-coopsstretched over them, which swarmed like bees about our steamer, did notcontain native ruffians demanding our money or our lives, as they seemedto be doing, but were simply peaceable citizens hoping to earn an honestpenny.

We dreaded going through the custom-house in this excessive heat; butIsnaga recognized one of his servants, in a small boat coming toward us,gesticulating wildly and waving a paper; this paper meant, it seemed,authority with the officials, so we had no delay, as Isnaga took us underhis wing. I almost wished that the custom-house had confiscated my thickclothes and the fur-lined coat; and as for the boa, it looked like avicious constrictor of its own name, and I wished it at the bottom of thesea.

Isnaga took us in his boat and landed us on the tropical "Plaza," where wefound his volante waiting. He insisted on our getting into this uniquevehicle, which I will describe later when I have more time.

Our one thought was to reach the hotel, which we did finally, sending thevolante back to its owner by a sweeping wave of the hand in thedirection of the quay, which the black Jehu seemed to comprehend.

Fortunately the proprietor spoke what he thought was English, and we wereable to secure very good rooms overlooking the harbor. How delicious thecool, marble-floored room appeared to us! How we luxuriated in the fresh,cold water, the juiciest of oranges, the iced pineapples, and all thedelicious fruits they brought us, and, above all, in the balmy air and thefeeling of repose and rest! We reappeared in the thinnest of gauzes forthe repast called dinner.

Adieu, cold and ice! Vive le soleil!

This hotel (San Carlos) is situated right on the bay. The quay in front ofus is garnished with a row of dwarfy trees and dirty benches, these lastbeing decorated, in their turn, by slumbering Cubans. There werecolonnades underneath the hotel, where there were small shops, from whichthe odor of garlic and tobacco, combined with the shrieks and the snappingof the drivers' whips, reached us, as we sat above them on our balcony.

The hotel is square, with an open courtyard in the middle, and all therooms open on to the marble gallery which surrounds the courtyard. Thisgallery is used as a general dining-room; each person eats at his ownlittle iron table placed before the door of his bedroom.

Our large room contains two iron beds (minus mattresses), with only acanvas screwed on the iron sides, but covered with the finest of linensheets. An iron frame holds the mosquito-net in place.

Evidently a wash-stand is a thing to be ashamed of, for they are concealedin the most ingenious way. Mine in the daytime is rather an attractivecommode; Laura's is a writing-table, which at night opens up and disclosesthe wash-basin. Otherwise there is little furniture: two cane-bottomedchairs, two bamboo tables (twins); one has a blue ribbon tied on its legto tell it from its brother. Two ingeniously braided mats of linen cord doduty for the descente de lit. Oh yes! there is a mirror for each ofus, which in my hurry to finish my letter I forgot to mention; but theyare so small and wavy that the less we look in them the better we aresatisfied with ourselves.

We have a large balcony, which has a beautiful view of the harbor and theopposite shore, two huge wooden so-called windows, which are not windows,opening on to the balcony. There is a panel in the middle which you canopen if you want some fresh air. Glass is never used for windows, so thatwhen you shut your window you are in utter darkness. Opposite is the doorwhich is not a door, but a sort of a gate with lattice shutters, givingthe room the look of a bar-room. There is space above the shutters whichis open to the ceiling.

Any one in the gallery who wanted to could stand on a chair and peer over.Everything that goes on in the gallery, every noise, every conversation,can be clearly overheard, and if one only understood the language it mightbe very interesting.

The bars and locks on our doors and windows date from the fifteenthcentury, I should say, and it is with the most herculean efforts that wemanage to shut ourselves in for the night; and we only know that the dayhas broken when we hear the nasal and strident Cuban voices, and theclattering of plates on the other side of the gate. Then we work likegalley-slaves unbarring, and the blazing sun floods our room.

I don't know if bells are popular in Havana; but in this hotel we havenone. If you want a chambermaid, which you do about every half-hour, youmust open your gate and clap your hands, and if she does not come you goon clapping until some one else comes.

For our early breakfast we begin clapping at an early hour, and finallyour coffee and a huge plate filled with the most delicious oranges, cutand sugared, are brought to us. We tried to obtain some simple toast; butthis seemed unknown to the Cuban cuisine, and we had to content ourselveswith some national mixture called rolls.

CUBA, January 24, 1873.

The letters of introduction which kind Admiral Polo (Spanish Minister inWashington) gave me must be very powerful and far reaching, for we arereceived as if we were Princesses of the blood. The Governor-General camedirectly to put himself, his house, his family, his Generalship—in fact,all Cuba—á la disposición de usted. The Captain of the Port appeared infull gala uniform, and deposited the whole of the Spanish fleet, hisperson, and the universe in general at my feet, and said, "That no stoneshould be left unturned to make our stay in Havana illustrious inhistory."

What could the most admirable of Polos have written to have created suchan effect? Then came the General Lliano, a very handsome man, but who Ithought was rather stingy, as he only put the Spanish Army at mydisposition, and himself (cela va sans dire).

Next came Señor Herreras, dressed all in white, with the most perfectpatent-leather boots, much too tight for him, and which must have causedhim agonies while he was offering to put himself (of course), his bank,and all his worldly possessions in my hands.

I accepted all with a benign smile, and answered that I only had Americaand my fur-lined coat and boa to offer in return.

We had so many instructions given to us as to what to do and what not todo in this perfidious climate that we were quite bewildered.

Never to go out in the sun. Result—Malaria and sudden death.

Never put your feet on the bare floors. Result—Centipedes.

Never drink the water. Result—Yellow fever.

Never eat fruit at night. Result—Typhoid fever.

If you sleep too much; if you sit in the draught; if you let the moonshine on you. Result—Lockjaw and speedy annihilation.

These admonitions were very confusing, and we lay awake at night thinkinghow we could manage to live under these circ*mstances.

What a delight to look at the view from our balcony! I never imaginedanything so beautiful: the distant hills are so blue, the water sosparkling, the sun gilds the hundreds of sails in the harbor. At night thewater is brilliant with phosphorescence, and when the boats glide throughit they throw out a thousand colors; even the reflection of the stars ismulticolored. And then, pervading all, the delicious fragrance of fruitand flowers and tropicality!

When I am not poetical, as above, I notice the oxcarts with their crueldrivers yelling at their poor beasts and goading them with iron-pointedsticks. When they were not striking them, they struck picturesqueattitudes themselves, leaning on their carts and smoking endlesscigarettes. The cabmen are also picturesque in their way. After theirreturn from a "course," tired out from whipping their forlorn horses intothe sideling trot which is all they are equal to, and after flicking theirears until they are too lazy to continue, they hang their hats andstockingless feet over the carriage lamps and chew sugar-cane, looking thepicture of contentment.

Cabs are cheap; twenty-five cents will take you anywhere à la course.But if you go from one shop to another, or linger at a visit, fancy knowsno bounds, for there is no tariff and the coachman's imagination is apt tobe vivid; and as you can't trust anything else, you must trust to yourconversational power to get you out of the scrape.

Volantes are capricious and too exotic a vehicle to trifle with;moreover, they turn corners with difficulty, and corners in Havana are thethings you meet the most of.

The streets are narrow; so that if you wish to avoid adventures you mustbe careful to give your coachman the correct address before starting off.The porter of the hotel did this for us to-day, as our Spanish has notreached perfection yet.

All the streets are labeled subida, which means, "go up this street," orbajado, "down this street." If, by chance, you want to go to 27 subidaand you amble on to 29, it takes you hours to go bajado and get back tosubida again, going round in a cercle vicieux. We spent a wholebroiling afternoon buying two spools of thread, my parasol being mightierthan my tongue, as the poor coachman's back can vouch for. When everythingelse failed we shouted in unison, "Hotel San Carlos," and the blackcoachman grinned with delight. Seeing bajado so often at differentpoints, Laura thought it was the sign of an assurance company; when I sawit on the same house as Maria Jesus Street I thought it was some kind ofcharitable institution.

A volante, as I have said, is a unique and delightful vehicle, which onerequires to know to appreciate. There are two huge wheels behind and nonein front; the animal, secured between the shafts, supports the weight ofthe carriage. The seat is very low, so that you recline, more than sit;your feet are unpleasantly near the horse's tail; a small seat can bepulled out between you and your companion if there is a child in theparty. A dusky postilion decked out in high top-boots, with enormousspurs of real silver, sits astride the horse between the shafts, and ahuge sombrero covers his woolly head.

The harness, spurs, buckles, and a good deal of the carriage trimmings aresilver; the horse's tail is braided once a week and tied to the saddle. Nofrisky frightening off the flies from his perspiring and appetizing body!Sometimes (in fact, usually) there is an extra horse outside of thetraces, so that labor is thus divided. The volante drags the people; thehorse in the shafts drags the volante, and the extra horse dragseverything; the coachman does the spurring, whipping, and shouting, andthe inmates do the lolling.

I forgot to say that my friend, Lola Maddon, whom I used to know in Paris,is here, married to Marquis San Carlos, who was a fascinating widower withseveral children, whom Lola, like the dear creature she is, had takenunder her youthful wing. She rushed to see me the moment she heard that Ihad come, and has already begun to "turn the stones" which are to beturned for me to make my "visit illustrious" here. She has invited us tothe opera to-morrow, and gives a soirée for me on the following evening.I confess I am rather curious to see a soirée in Havana. I hope theyhave ice-chests to sit on and cool conversation. I shall not talkpolitics; in the first place I can't, and in the second place becauseit is heating to the blood.

Lola says her husband is a rabid Spaniard. "A rabid Spaniard!" Couldanything be more alarming? No; I will not be the innocent means to bringabout discussions, and precipitate a conflict between the Cubans and theSpaniards! I have pinned upon the bed-curtains, next to the precautionsfor preserving health and the washing-list, the words, "Never talkpolitics, nor be led into listening to them," I can always, if pushed intoa corner, assume an air of profundity and say, "Is the crisis—" and thenstop and look for a word. The politician, if he is anything of apolitician, will finish the phrase for me, with the conviction that I knowall about it but am diplomatic.

To see the cows in Havana is enough to break your heart. I weep over themin a sort of milky way. I have always seen cows in comfortable stables,with nice, clean straw under their feet and pails full of succulent foodplaced within easy reach, while at certain intervals a tidy, tender-hearted young milkmaid appears with a three-legged stool and a roomy pail,and extracts what the cow chooses to give her. But here the wiry creaturesroam from door to door, and drop a pint or so at each call. It is pitifulto see the poor, degraded things, with their offspring following behind.The latter are graciously allowed to accompany them; but no calls onNature are permitted, the poor little things are even muzzled!

Whenever I wish to go into the public parlor, where there is a piano, Imeet the Countess C——, who has evidently just been singing to her sonand her husband.

The first day I met her I approached her with the intention to talk music;but she swept by with a look which withered me up to an autumn leaf andleft the room, followed by her music, son, and husband; but afterward,when she saw the Captain of the Port in full gala offering me "Cuba etses dépendences," she changed her manner, and then it was my turn! Whenshe asked me if I also knew Count Ceballos, the Governor General, Ianswered, with a sweet smile, "Of course I do." "And many other peoplehere?" she asked, "All I think that are worth knowing," I replied, gettingup and leaving the room as abruptly as she had done. It was great fun,though L—— thought I was rude.

We went to the theater with Marquise San Carlos. "All the world is here,"said she. Certainly it looked as if all Havana filled the Tacon, which isa very large theater. Every box was full, and the parquet, as Lola toldme, contained the haute volée of the town; the open balconies weresacred to the middle-class, while in the upper gallery were the nobodies,with their children, poor things! decked out with flowers and trying tokeep awake through the very tiresome and démodé performance of"Macbeth." Tamberlik sang. What a glorious voice he has! And when he tookthe high C (which, if I dare make the joke, did not at all resemble theone Laura and I encountered coming out of New York Harbor) it was all Icould do to sit quiet. I wanted to wave something. The prima-donna wasassoluta, and must have been pickled in some academy in Italy yearsago, for she was not preserved. She acted as stupidly as she sang.

Each box has six seats and are all open, with the eternal lattice-door atthe back, and separated from its neighbor by a small partition. It wasvery cozy, I thought; one could talk right and left, and when thegentlemen circulated about in the entr'actes smoking the inevitablecigarette, which never leaves a Cuban's lips except to light a fresh one,all the lattice-doors are eagerly opened to them. Lola presented all thehaute volée to us, the unpresented just stared. I never realizedhow much staring a man can do till I saw the Cuban. I mentioned this toLola, to which she responded, "It is but natural, you are a stranger."

"Dear friend," said I, "I have been a stranger in other lands, but I havenever seen the like of this. If I was an orang outang there might be somereason, but to a simple mortal, or two simple mortals, like my sister andmyself, their stares seem either too flattering or the reverse."

"Why, my dear," she replied, "they mean it as the greatest compliment, youmay believe me." And she appealed to her husband, who confirmed what shesaid. All the gentlemen carry fans and use them with vigor; the ladies areso covered with powder (cascarilla) that you can't tell a pretty onefrom an ugly one. If one of them happens to sneeze, there is an avalancheof powder.

Lola showed us her establishment and explained the architecture of a Cubanhouse. If chance has put a chimney somewhere, they place the kitchen nearit. Light and size are of no account, neither is cooking of anyimportance.

CUBA, February, 1873.

We make such crowds of acquaintances it would be useless to tell you thenames. The Marquise San Carlos sent her carriage for us the evening of hersoirée. All the company was assembled when we arrived: the Marquis,the Dean of Havana, and two abbés were playing tresillo, a Spanishgame of cards.

A group of men stood in the corner and seemed to be talking politics, asfar as I could judge from then gesticulations. A few ladies in sweepingtrains, and very décolletées, sat looking on listlessly. The daughter ofthe house was nearing the piano. The Dean said to me, with a sly smile,"Now is the coup de grâce!"—his little joke. She sang, "Robert, toi quej'aime. Grâce! Grâce!" etc. Also she sang the waltz of "Pardon dePloërmel," a familiar cheval de bataille of my own, which I was glad tosee cantering on the war-path again. In the mean time conversation was atlow ebb for poor Laura. She told me some fragments which certainly werepeculiar. For instance, she understood the gentle man who had last beentalking to her to say that he had been married five times, had twenty-eight children, and had married his eldest son's daughter as his fifthwife. I afterward ascertained that what he had intended to convey was thathe was twenty-eight when he married and had fifteen children. That was badenough, I thought.

I sang two or three times. The gaiety was brought to rather an abruptclose, as the Marquis received a telegram of his brother's death. The Abbéwent on playing his game, not at all disturbed (such is the force ofhabit); but we folded our tents and departed.

The hours are sung out in the streets at night, with a little flourish atthe end of each verse. I fancy the watchman trusts a good deal toinspiration about this, as my clock—an excellent one—did not at allchime in with his hours. Perhaps he composes his little verse, in whichcase a margin ought to be allowed him….

The bells in the churches are old and cracked and decrepit.

All the fleet, and any other boat that wants to join in fire off salute,to wake you up in the morning.

I bought to-day the eighth part of a lottery-ticket.

The Captain of the Port thinks his English is better than his French, butsometimes it is very funny. He says: "Don't take care," instead of "Nevermind"—"The volante is to the door"—"Look to me, I am all proudness"—"You are all my anxiousness."

The houses are generally not more than one story high, built around anopen court, on which all rooms open. In the middle of this is a fountain;no home is complete without a fountain, and no fountain is completewithout its surroundings of palms, plants, and flowers. In one of therooms you can see where the volante reposes for the night. You onlysee these glories at night. When the heavy bolts are drawn back you andeverybody can look in from the street on the family gathering, basking inrocking-chairs around the fountain, and in oriental, somnolentconversation.

CUBA, February.

The annual soirée of the Governor and his wife took place last night.The Captain of the Port came to fetch us. The palace is, like allother official buildings, magnificent on the outside, but simple andsevere within. There was a fine staircase, and all the rooms werebrilliantly lighted, but very scantily furnished, according to our ideas.We must have gone through at least six rooms before we reached the hostand hostess. Every room was exactly alike: in each was a red strip ofcarpet, half a dozen rocking-chairs placed opposite one another, a cane-bottomed sofa, a table with nothing on it, and walls ditto. There arenever any curtains, and nothing is upholstered. This is the typical Cubansalon.

There was an upright piano and a pianist at it when we entered, but theresonance was so overpowering that I could not hear what he was playing.Laura and I (after having been presented to a great many people) wereinvited to sit in the rocking-chairs. The gentlemen either stood out inthe corridor or else behind the chair of a lady and fanned her. Dulcesand ices were passed round, and every one partook of them, delighted tohave the opportunity to do something else than talk.

When the pianist had finished his Chopin a lady sang, accompanied by herson, who had brought a whole pile of music. She courageously attacked theCavatina of "Ernani." The son filled up the places in her vocalizationwhich were weak by playing a dashing chord. She was a stout lady and verywarm from her exertions, and the more she exerted herself the morefrequently the vacancies occurred; and the son, perspiring at every pore,had difficulty to fill them up with the chords, which became louder andmore dashing.

Countess Ceballos, with much hemming and hawing, begged me to sing. I feltall eyes fixed on me; but my eyes were riveted to the little, low piano-stool on which I should have to sit. It seemed miles below the piano-keys."How could I play on it?" Evidently none but long-bodied performers hadbeen before me, for when I asked for a cushion, in order to raise myself alittle, nothing could be found but a very bulgy bed-pillow, which wasbrought, I think, from the mother country. There was a sort of Andalusianswagger about it.

The dream "that I dwelt in marble halls" was no longer a dream. Here I wassinging in one. I sang "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," and another songwhich had an easy accompaniment. It took me a little moment to temper myvoice to these shorn rooms.

The charge of musketry which followed was deafening, though only gentlemenclapped their hands; ladies don't rise to such exertion in Cuba. I sang"Beware!" as a parting salute. The Captain of the Port came up, flushedwith pride, and said, in his best English, "I am all proudness!"

Panelas (large pieces of frosted sugar, to be melted in water) andother sweets were passed about at intervals.

Shaking hands is a great institution here. No one wears gloves except atthe opera, so that one's hands are in a perpetual state of fermentation,especially after one of these functions, when making acquaintances,expressing thanks, and everything else are done through the medium of thehands. One can literally say that one wrings one's hands.

We, as the distinguished guests, were led into the supper-room veryceremoniously, and put among the higher strata of society. The buffet wasoverflowing with Cuban delicacies and dulces. I reveled in the fruit andleft the viands severely alone.

After supper we went into the ball-room, and saw for the first time theCuban waltz, otherwise called Habanera, a curious dance somethingbetween a shuffle and a languid glide. The dancers hardly move from thesame spot, or at most keep in a very small circle, probably on account ofthe heat and exertion; and then the dispersing of so much powder, withwhich every lady covers herself and gets rid of when she moves, has to beconsidered.

The music has a peculiar measure; I have never heard anything like itbefore. The instruments seemed mostly to be violins, flutes, clarinets,and a small drum. The bass is very rhythmical and deep, whereas the thintones of the other instruments are on the very highest notes, which leavesa gap between the upper and lower tones, making such a peculiar effectthat the music pursues and haunts you even in your dreams.

We bade our host and hostess good night and, followed by the Captain ofthe Port, who now was not only "all proudness," but full of"responsibilitiveness," left the palace. In passing the music-room I tooka farewell look at the bulgy bed-pillow, which was still reposing on themusic-stool.

CUBA, February.

DEAR MAMA,—You have no idea of the heat here. I never felt anything soscorching as it was to-day. Let me tell you what happened.

General Lliano came in the morning to ask what Havana could show me. Ianswered that above all things I wanted to see Morro Castle. He repliedthat Morro Castle was mine, and that I had only to fix the time and hewould take us there.

I did fix it, and fixed it at two o'clock, as a fit hour to visit theCabaña. I noticed the look of blank despair on our friend's face,but, not knowing that all Cuba slept between the hours of two and five, Idid not realize the piteousness of it. General Lliano begged the Captainof the Port, Señor Català, to accompany us, and both of these gentlemencame in full uniform, as well as their aides-de-camp.

The Captain's trim little boat was at the wharf near our hotel, and wewere rowed over by the governmental crew to the opposite shore, and weremet by the Governor of Morro Castle at the landing in the most swelteringheat. I had not forgotten to take the precaution, which anywhere elsewould have been appropriate, to carry extra wraps, as I told Laura thatthey were necessary for every water excursion. You may imagine the de-trop-ness of these articles when the thermometer was up at one hundredand twenty in the shade.

We were taken about conscientiously and shown all that there was to beseen: all the dungeon-cells and subterranean passages, and up the hill tosee the view, which was very extended and very beautiful. From there wewent to the Governor's house, where we were greeted by his wife anddaughter, the wife stiff in black moiré (I mean the moiré was stiff, notshe). He placed himself, his wife and daughter, and his mansion at mydisposal. I would not have minded taking the old gentleman; but Iabsolutely refused the lady and the moiré dress.

Dulces were served and some unappetizing-looking ices, which tastedbetter than they looked. Cakes also were offered us, of which I picked outthose which had the least mauve and yellow coatings. When we werepresented with some stiff little bouquets we thought it was a signal fordeparture, and bade adieu to the black moiré and the fast-melting ices.

From the Cabaña we walked along the macadamized road to the MorroCastle, a long distance it seemed to me in the heat; but we left the hardand glaring road and walked over the grass, following the line of thesubterranean passage, which made a sort of mound, and finally reachedMorro Castle. Here there were more officials, more presentations and moreceremonies, and more dulces and more bouquets.

The view from the ramparts, on which stood the lighthouse, was sublime:the blue sea underneath us, Havana on the left, and the purple mountainsin the far distance.

One of the officials asked us whether we wanted to go to the top of thelighthouse. I declined, much to the relief of the assembled company. Theysay that fish have been thrown up by the spray over the lighthouse; butthis seems almost as incredible as the majority of fishy stories. Thecastle is very high, the ramparts are higher, and the lighthouse crownseverything. The water dashes up through narrow crevices in the rocks,which gives it great force, and possibly might account for the fish story,but I doubt it.

By this time (six o'clock) we were utterly exhausted. Even at this hourthe heat was intolerable. We had hoped for a little breeze on the water;but, alas! there was none. Poor Señor Herreras held his foot incased intight patent-leather boots in his lap, moaning, "Comme je souffre!"

How they all must have blessed me for this idea of mine! I felt ashamed tolook them in the face.

CUBA, 1873.

I could not tell you all the things we were taken to see. We visited theGerman and Spanish men-of-war As we were in the company of the Governor-General, the Commander, and the Captain-General, we were not spared theproper salutes. The tour of the war-ships had to be made, and in place ofthe eternal dulces international refreshments were offered us. Wedeparted in the Captain of the Port's steam-launch, and drove to theCarreo, where the pretty villas are.

The Governor-General drove us out to his quinta in great style:English horses and carriage and an American coachman. The roads werepretty bad, and we were considerably jostled going through the Paseo.The coachman careered from side to side to avoid ruts and tracks, and thedust was overpowering. No conversation was possible, as our throats werefilled with dust and our lives hanging on a thread. I waved my hand in thedirection of anything I thought pretty, and silence followed.

At the quinta all was ready and waiting for us. Fountains were playing,servants in red and yellow gorgeous liveries, with white stockings, wereflitting about; various Cuban delicacies were offered to us, and weadmired everything that was to be admired. The return drive wasdelightful, through the long avenues of stately palms and graceful date-trees.

The carnival is a great event and very amusing. I am not spoiled in theway of carnivals, only having seen that of Paris (the Boeuf gras)and the Battle of Flowers at Nice. The populace turn out in great force,every one is gay and happy, and the Cubans high and low join in the sport.

We were invited to drive in a four-in-hand. In this way we had a kind ofbird's-eye view of the whole. No lady thinks herself too fine to join inthe carnival. The procession, which defiles up and down the Paseo duringthe fray, begins at four in the hot, broiling afternoon, and ladies,decked out as Diana, Minerva, or other celebrities, powdered àl'outrance, smiling and proud of their success, recline in theirvolantes. Their own servants, with false noses or otherwise disguised,have their fun, too. I never saw such an orderly crowd; no pushing, noquarreling, no drunkenness, and yet every one was enjoying himself. Therewere two rows of carriages, one going up, one going down, with a place inthe middle for the four-in-hands and the chars, some of which were veryingenious. There was a steamship with sailors, who kept firing off thewhistle every time they saw a skittish horse. On another car were mendressed as skeletons with death's-heads instead of masks, and Shylock-looking Jews riding with their backs to the horses' heads, holding on totheir tails.

A Punch and Judy were acting on a little stage during the procession,surrounded by children of all sizes and ages decked out in costumes, theirtinselly flowers showing off their thin and sallow faces. There was atremendous tooting of horns, and, with the music in the square and themusic on the chars, made a perfect Bedlam. People nudged one another aswe hove in sight in our four-in-hand.

The G——s did not relish the carnival as much as we did, and thought it adismal affair. They captured a victoria by force, the coachman refusing totake them until they said "Paseo" upon which he started off on a trot. Hehad a dilapidated old horse, who had to be beaten all the way there, andwhen there, what do you think the coachman did? Simply pulled out a falsenose and put it on and lighted a cigarette, stuck his hat on the lamp, andjeered at all the other vehicles, being on jeering terms with all theother cabmen; and as the Paseo is a mile long, it meant a mile ofmortification. They came home disgusted and voted the carnival a"disgraceful affair."

MATANZAS, CUBA.

DEAR M.,—In my last letter I told you of our invitation to the balpoudré and masqué here. Count Ceballos, thinking it would amuse us tosee it, arranged that we should stay at the palace, where the ball was totake place.

The Captain of the Port, with his aide-de-camp, accompanied us on ourtrip, and as he was going there in some official capacity, we shared hishonors.

We had no adventures except that of traveling in company with a ratherrough-looking set of men, who were on their way to a co*ck-fight. The co*ckswere tied up in bags; but as I wanted to see one the man opened the bagand took it out, and also showed me the spurs they strap on them when theyfight.

We arrived in Matanzas about six o'clock, to find the Mayor's carriagewaiting for us. We drove to the palace, and after dinner dressed for theball. We did not attempt anything in the way of mask or costume, as beingunknown and unpowdered was a sufficient disguise.

The Captain of the Port knew every one there, and presented many of hisfriends. We went out and stood on the balcony, looking at the sea ofupturned heads. It seemed as if every Matanzois who was not inside wasoutside gazing at the windows, and listening to the band which was playingin the square. The night was glorious with a full moon.

I think that I have described in a former letter the Cuban dance, thelanguid tropical shuffle they call the Habanera. The music is somonotonous, always the same over and over again, and only ceases when itis convenient to the musicians.

The ladies had cascarilla (a powder made of eggshells) an inch thick ontheir faces. I doubt if the officers ever saw so much powder as they didat this bal poudré.

There was a sit-down supper, consisting of sandwiches smelling strong ofbad butter, ham and chicken salads, dulces of all sorts, but, alas!no fruit. The dancing continued long after we had retired for the night.

The Marquis Aldamar invited us to a déjeuner for the following day;the volantes were again "to the door," and we started off in grandstyle and great spirits and drove to the top of the mountain, from whichwe enjoyed a perfectly glorious view of the Yumiri Valley. The windingriver looked like a silver thread as it wound in and out through thegrassy meadows.

Our déjeuner was of a more European character than any that we hadyet had in Cuba; the menu was in French—evidently the cook was alsoFrench—and the servants looked imported. In fact, everything was invery good style. The hostess was charming and musical, she sang some verypretty Cuban songs, and after a while asked me if I were musical, and if Iwould play something.

The Captain, in an undertone and in all "proudness," said, "Ask Madame tosing." And she did so in a rather condescending manner.

I accepted and went timidly to the piano, and as I hesitated as to what Ishould sing, she said, "Oh! just sing any little thing." With an amusedglance at Laura I sang Chopin's waltz, which is the most difficult thing Ising, and the astonishment depicted on the countenance of my patronizinghostess was highly diverting.

"I wonder if you are any relation of a Mrs. Moulton whom my cousin knew inParis," she said. "He was very intimate with a family of your name, andoften talked to me about a Mrs. Moulton who sang so beautifully."

"Can it be that I am the same person? I have lived in Paris. What was yourcousin's name?" I inquired.

"Jules Alphonso."

"What!" I cried. "Jules Alphonso your cousin? I have not seen him foryears. I used to know him so well. Where is he?"

"He lives here in Cuba," she answered.

"Where in Cuba?" I interrupted. "How extraordinary! How much I should liketo see him again!"

"And he, I am sure, would like to see you, he has so often talked aboutyou to me. I felt directly last night that I knew you; it must have beenintuition."

I think, Mama, you must remember Jules. He was like a second son in ourhouse, and was an intimate friend of my brother-in-law, and would haveliked to have been a brother-in-law himself if he had been accepted. Weall loved him. How strange to find him here! The last place in the world Ishould have dreamed of! I am not sure that I ever knew that he was aCuban.

My new friend was wild with joy. "You are the one person that I havewanted to know all my life, and, fancy, here you are!"

Was it not a curious coincidence to meet here, in this out-of-the-wayplace, some one who knew all about me?

I repeated, "I must see Jules, and if he is anywhere near I shallcertainly try to find him." "Let us go together," she said. "I will driveyou there, and we will take him by surprise." Two volantes wereimmediately before the door, and the Marquise Aldamar, the Captain of thePort, Laura, and I started for La Rosa, Jules's plantation. It was anenchanting drive, though a long one, leading, as it did, through avenuesof royal palms, and it was quite six o'clock before we reached Jules'shouse. I said to the Marquise Aldamar, "As Jules has no idea that I am inthis part of the world, let me go in alone and surprise him."

We drove up to the entrance of his pretty villa, and the othersaccompanied me to the door of the salon with a finger on their lips, sothat the servant should not announce us. We saw Jules sitting at a tablereading. I entered softly and went behind him, and laying my hand on hisshoulder said, "Jules!"

He turned quickly about, and when he saw me he thought I was an apparitionor a dream. "What! What!" he cried, trembling with astonishment.

"It is I—Lillie Moulton," I said, quietly.

"You! you! No, it can't be possible!" And he took hold of my hands as ifto see if they were flesh and blood. "Where did you come from? How did youget here? What brought you here?" followed in quick succession. The otherspushed aside the curtain and came in. Then followed explanations. I wasobliged to answer thousands of questions, and go into thousands ofdetails, concerning the family, Paris, the war, and so forth. He orderedchampagne, improvised a little supper for us, and did not seem to be ableto do enough to show his delight at seeing me. But the Captain of the Portsoon reminded us that it was time to be on our way back to Matanzas, as itwas a long drive, and I bade a tearful farewell to lonely Jules. Ourcomet-like visit must have seemed to him like a vision, and he watched us,with eyes full of tears, drive away out of his life. Poor Jules!

MATANZAS, CUBA.

We spent the following morning in driving about the city. At half-past twocrossed the ferry to Yuanana-bocca, where we found the amiable directorand the rest of the party. The cars, with their cane-bottomed seats, werecool. The scenery was exquisite. On both sides of the road were realjungles of tropical growth, with the purple mountains as a background. Wepassed many ingenios (plantations), with their tall, smoking chimneys,all in full blast.

On reaching our destination we were met by volantes and saddle-horses.The former were for the ladies, the latter for the gentlemen of the party,and we made our way through the narrow, dirty streets, passed the walls ofthe city, and came out on to the beautiful road, where a gang of chainedprisoners were breaking stones.

We passed many villas and well-kept gardens, and arrived at the bottom ofthe hill, where we were obliged to get out and walk, for the roads becameimpassable. It was a stiff climb; but when we reached the summit we wererewarded by a most magnificent view. We descended and reached thevolantes, the drivers whipped up their horses, and away we went overrocks and ruts, but feeling nothing of them. That is the charm of avolante; only the wheels, which are behind you, get the jerks and jolts.

After a half-hour's drive we reached the famous cave, Laura and I weresupplied with garments looking like mackintoshes, and, provided withtorches, we began to descend. We first came to a large, vaulted hall,where miles of stalactites in every form and shape twinkled in the lightof the torches.

We had to crawl through a small opening to get into another vaulted roomwhich boasted of an echo. The guide struck a note and I sang a cadenza,which resounded like a thousand voices.

There never could have been a thermometer made that could register suchheat as we felt here; the air was frightfully oppressive and almostintolerable.

They pointed out the Pope's Miter, the Virgin's Veil, the Altar, the Boat—all looking about as much like their names as an apple looks like a packof cards. After being shown the lake I begged for fresh air, and wemounted the steep wooden stairs. The hot air outside seemed like a wintrybreeze when we came into it, and we were told that we must cool off beforeventuring into the hot sun. Then we volanted back to Matanzas.

Our next visit was to the well-known ingenio (sugar-plantation)belonging to the cousin of the Marquis San Carlos. The sugar-mill stood infront of the master's house, so that the master could watch from his broadbalcony the bringing in of the sugar-cane, which was hauled by huge cart-loads drawn by oxen. The sugar-cane, on its arrival, was put between greatcrushing wheels before it was thrown into the vats. The sturdy negresses,up to their elbows, stirred the foaming syrup after it had boiled. Then itwas skimmed and boiled again to purify it. It went through a centrifugalprocess to crystallize it, and afterward was packed in boxes and stampedin less time than it takes to relate this. I liked to breathe the hotvapors coming from the huge tanks. What remains of the sugar is used asfuel; so nothing is wasted.

All the slaves seemed gay and well-fed. The Chinese, I believe, are likedbetter than the natives, they are so clean and adroit. We visited thehouses of the slaves and found them all well kept. The master threw silverpieces (ten cents) to the children, who seemed content in their barenakedness and clamored for more pennies. We drank querap (molasses)from the tanks mixed with whiskey. It was very good; but a little wentvery far. Two small children fanned us with palmettos during dinner. Wepassed the night there in the ingenio; but we saw no tarantulas, aswas predicted. The next morning, when our coffee was brought, there was anassortment of delicious fruits—pineapples, guavas, bananas, cocoanuts,mangos, etc., which we enjoyed immensely. There was a little excitementbefore we started: the gardener, a bridegroom of eighty-five summers, wasmarried to a blooming young person of eighty, both slaves and black asink. We arrived at Havana that evening.

You can't tell how grieved I was to hear of the kind and good EmperorNapoleon's death. He was only sixty-five years old. I thought he wasolder. What an eventful life he had—tragical would be the right word.What did he not endure? When he was a child he was an exile, and sincethen, until he became first President and then Emperor, he was knockingabout the world, sometimes hidden and sometimes pursued. However, he hadfifteen years of glory, for there was not in all Europe a man moreconsidered than he was, and he had until the last four years of his reignmore prestige than any other sovereign. I think after the tragedy ofMexico his star began to pale.

The Emperor Napoleon was certainly the kindest-hearted and best-intentioned man in the world, so full of life, fun, and appreciation. Ican see him now shaking with laughter when anything amused him, as wasoften the case at Compiègne.

The papers say that he had once been a policeman in London. I do notbelieve this is true, though the Emperor told me himself that he had livedvery humbly at times; still, that is very different from being apoliceman. I wonder if the Prince will try to get back the throne. He doesnot look as if he had a strong character, nor does he look as if he hadthe energy of the Emperor, which enabled him to go through so manyhardships to gain his ends.

How sad it is! I am sure the Empress's only consolation is the thoughtthat her son can recover the position the father lost.

We returned to Havana quite tired out with our little journey, and glad torest in the quiet of our cool rooms, and I looked across the water,crowded with boats of every description, and gazed with delight at thedistant mountains, with their clouds dragging themselves from one summitto the other.

How hot it is! I never thought that the sun, which is so high up, couldpour down so; but it does pour down. I think it is hotter here than inMatanzas.

We shall be leaving here in a few days, and I suppose we shall find iceand snow in New York, and return to india-rubbers and umbrellas—thingsunknown here. During our absence some German men-of-war have arrived here,and stationed themselves right in front of our windows.

It must be their wash-day, for all the sailors' clothes are hanging out todry.

Lola San Carlos is in light gray—the mourning one wears for a brother-in-law is not heavy in this warm country. She has invited us to a card-partyfor tomorrow; card-parties are evidently not gay enough to interfere withtears.

CUBA, February.

DEAR MAMA,—Well, we are really going to return! As usual, I have no moreclothes, and I certainly will not be bothered to have anything made here.My black tulle dress has become brown and gray in its efforts to keep upto the mark; and as for Laura's white lace, it has become gray and brown,so you see we must go home.

We went to Lola's card-party. There was the bereaved brother, looking verychirpy, and the Dean, and the Abbé. They kindly proposed to teach me theirfavorite game of tresillo. They took a lively interest in my ignorance.They told me the rules and the names of the extraordinary cards; forinstance, hearts were represented by coins, for clubs there were clubs,while trees and swords served for diamonds and spades. Every card issomething else than what you have called it before. The value of each ischanged according to the trump. What you have considered always as a lowcard, such as the two of spades, suddenly becomes the best card in thepack.

All the cards have Spanish names—Spadilla, Manilla, Basta, Ponto, andMatadores—which sound very romantic. A simple seven of hearts becomessuddenly top card and is called Manilla, which is the second best whenhearts are trumps, and then the two of clubs, which was miles high thelast hand, is at the tail of all the other cards now. It is a dreadfulgame. I thought that I should have brain fever while learning it. Theywent on playing it for hours; there never seemed any end to it; theycounted in the weirdest way, making ciphers and tit-tat-toes on the greenbaize table with chalk, and wiped out with a little brush. Every trick ofthe adversary was deducted, and all the heads met over the chalk-marks tofind out mistakes.

CUBA.

DEAR M.,—A dance was given at the Captain-General's, where all theofficers of the German and Spanish men of war were present. It was a verybrilliant sight, and we made many delightful acquaintances. CommodoreWerner of the German Friedrich Wilhelm, Commodore Livonius of theElizabeth, besides many other charming officers, as well as manySpanish officers from the Gerona. The Germans danced with more energythan the Cubans are accustomed to, and they stared at the unusual vigordisplayed, and accounted for it, saying it was because they were new-comers. In fact, the officers, in their trim uniforms, looked very hotand wilted at the end of the evening. Commodore Werner was a most gallantgentleman, and as we did not dance, he had the leisure to tell me allabout his family, his literary tastes, and his admiration for prettyladies; and he finished by asking if we would do him the honor to lunch onhis ship the next day. A handsome young lieutenant (Tirpitz) came to askme to dance, but Commodore Werner gave him what in other less tropicalcountries might be called a freezing look, remarking that no one ought todance in such heat as this. The young lieutenant left us quite subdued;but the heat did not prevent his dancing with many ladies, if not with me.

The next day we went to lunch on the Friedrich Wilhelm, and it waswith delight that we sat on the awning-covered deck. The Commodore askedme to give him an idea for some occupation for the sailors, who had somuch time on their hands, and, as I happened to know how to plait straw, Iproposed showing them how to do it.

The Commodore sent a launch to Havana to get the straw, and we passed theafternoon dividing the time between listening to the music of the ship'sband and tasting different beverages and eating German pretzels andteaching the sailors how to plait.

At five o'clock we were rowed ashore, and welcomed a little fresh breezewhich had sprung up.

The following morning the inmates of the hotel were awakened at an earlyhour by the solemn hymn which belongs to a German serenade. The kindCommodore had sent his band to play for me, and it filled the whole hall.

The early breakfasters were dreadfully put out about it; the brassinstruments sounded like a double orchestra, and resounded in these marblehalls like volleys of musketry; and as for the hotel-keeper, he has notgot over his surprise yet.

We had many pleasant days after this. Each one, we said, would be thelast; still we stayed on. One of the German men-of-war gave a ball, theSpanish gave another; each vied with the other to give the finestentertainment. It was a pleasure to go on board the German boats,everything was so spick and span, the sailors so neat and trim, the deckso beautifully kept, and the brasses glistened red-hot in the sun.

I cannot tell you all we did these last days. I was glad to hear that theGerman sailors had profited by my lessons, and had in a short time plaitedstraw enough to make some hats for themselves. I shall always feel proudwhen I see a German sailor with a straw hat, for I shall feel that I laidthe foundation of this industry.

One of the afternoons we spent on the Commodore's boat. I sang for theofficers in the cabin, and then, when I was on deck, I sang some of thesongs from "Pinafore" for the sailors, whom the Commodore called togetherto hear me. They grinned from ear to ear when I sang "What, never?""Hardly ever," and "Never used a big, big D," in the captain's song in"Pinafore." This was the last time we visited our amiable German host.

I shall post this letter in New York. It will probably reach you before wedo.

Our departure was a triumphal procession. The Captain of the Port, devotedto the last, took us in his official steam-launch to our steamer. Flowers,fruit, and souvenirs of all kinds filled our cabin to overflowing, andwhen we passed the German boats, hats and handkerchiefs were waved aloft,and the bands on the decks played with all their Teutonic might until wewere out of hearing distance.

We noticed our tall, handsome lieutenant standing alone on the fore partof the deck. He made a fine naval salute, while the good Commodore wavedhis handkerchief frantically.

The Captain of the Port accompanied us down the harbor as far as Morro
Castle in his steam-launch.

Adieu, dear Havana!

WASHINGTON, April, 1873.

DEAR LAURA,—The weather was atrociously bad when we returned to New York,and as for Boston—it was simply impossible. I began coughing and sneezingas soon as I reached home. So I decided to go to Washington on a visit toMrs. Robeson, wife of the Secretary of the Navy. She had often asked me;this was an excellent opportunity to accept.

Mrs. Robeson is a fine woman, built on ministerial, lines, and looks likea war-ship in review rig. They have an amusing house. Their Sundayevenings are the rendezvous of clever people; the men are particularlyentertaining—Mr. Blaine, Mr. Bayard, and other shining lights.

She is musical, and sings with pleasure. She has a luscious mezzo-soprano.She sang "Robin Adair" on one of these occasions with so much convictionthat it seemed as though she was routing Robin from his first sleep. Thenshe sang a French song in a childish voice (she thought it was abackfisch song); but I think it was anything but that, for I noticedsome Scandi-knavish glances between the Danish and Swedish Ministers,which made me suspicious.

There is a delightful German Minister (Mr. Schlözer) here, who is verymusical; though he does not know a note of music, he can improvise forhours.

SOMMERBERG, July, 1874.

DEAR MAMA,—My last letter was from Dinard, where I was nestling in thebosom of my family and enjoying the repose and the rest that family bosomsalone can give. I told you of my intention to visit Helen at her place onthe Rhine, and here I am enjoying another kind of rest: the rest of myincome.

Paul is at present Minister in Madrid; Helen and I lead a very quiet life.Driving to Wiesbaden to see the Nassaus and other friends is our favoriteoccupation. We linger in the shady walks of the park, look in at thegambling-rooms, sometimes we go to the races, and always come home tired.And then, how we enjoy the garden and the beautiful view over the Rhine!Some days we go out riding in the lovely forest, which leads to the mostprettily situated little "bad" place in the world—Schlangenbad.

Helen has in her stables three horses, two of which are the "fat ponies"and the third is the war-horse that Paul used in the French-Germancampaign. We take the war horse in turn, as he has to be exercised. Whenit is my day I shudder at the thought of it. Riding is not my strongpoint; in fact, it is my weakest point, and I feel that I am not at all inmy element; and when I see the tall beast being led up to the door, and Iknow that at a given moment I am to be fired up on to his back, my heartsinks. He has a gentle way with him which makes the process of getting onhim extremely difficult. Just as my foot is in the groom's hand, and I sayone—two—three, and am in midair, the horse moves gently to one side, andI either land on the hard pommel or, more often, I fill an empty spacebetween the horse and the groom, which is awkward. However, when, afterrepeated efforts, I do manage to hit the saddle on the right placeI stick there.

He is full of fancies—this horse—and reminiscences, and sometimes getsthe idea into his head that he hears the bugle-call to arms. Then off hegoes to join his imaginary companions, and charges the trees or anythingthat occurs to him, and nothing on earth can stop him, certainly nothingon his back can. My hair comes down and my hat flies off, and I feel I amnot doing the haute école in proper style. Fortunately Helen and Iare alone, and as the war-horse is miles in front of the "fat pony," shedoes not see the école I am doing, and I rather enjoy the wild way wecareer over space. I do not attempt to guide his martial steps, but lethim come into camp when he feels inclined.

The groom is never surprised if I come an hour too late. I fancy he knowswhat I have gone through: brambles, branches, and—agony.

SOMMERBERG, July, 1874.

I have just returned from a delightful visit to the Prince and PrincessMetternich. It was very hot the day I left here, and the sun poured downon the broad, white roads which lead from Sommerberg to the station. On myarrival at Johannisberg Prince Metternich was waiting for me with acalèche à la Daumont.

Our jaunty postilion blew his little horn incessantly as we gallopedthrough the village and up the long, steep hill which leads to thechâteau. The walls on both sides of the badly paved, narrow road were highand unpicturesque—not a tree to be seen; vineyards, vineyards everywhere—nothing but vineyards.

The château is a very ugly building, of no particular kind ofarchitecture, looking more like a barn than a castle. It is shaped like anenormous E, without towers or ornamentation of any kind.

The Princess was at the door, and welcomed me most affectionately, andwith her were the other guests: the handsome duch*ess d'Ossuna, CountZichy, Count Kevenhüller, Count Fitz-James, and Commandant Duperré. Theimmense hall, which occupies the entire center of the house, has fivewindows giving out on the courtyard and five on the terrace, and iscomfortably furnished with all kinds of arm-chairs, rugs, and so forth. Agrand piano stood in one corner near the window, and over this window wasan awning (an original idea of the Princess, to put an awning inside,instead of outside of the window). An unusually large table, covered withquaint books, periodicals, and the latest novels, stood in the middle ofthe room, and there were plants, palms, and flowers everywhere.

The Princess showed me the different rooms. Her boudoir was hung withembroidered satin. One room I liked particularly; the walls were coveredwith the coarsest kind of écru linen, on which were sewed pink pigeons cutout of cretonne; even the ceiling had its pigeons flying away in thedistance. Another room was entirely furnished in cashmere shawls—apresent from the Shah himself. There must have been a great many, to havecovered the walls and all the divans.

Nowhere could the Princess have had such a chance to show what she coulddo as here, in the transforming of this barrack into a livable place. Iadmired everything immensely. She told me that she thought she was verypractical, because, when they leave here, all the hangings can be takendown and folded and put away, so that the next year they are just as goodas new.

They only stay here two months every year (July and August); the enormousdisplay of flowers on the long terrace before the château is alsotemporary. There are at least four to five hundred pots of flowers, mostlygeraniums, which make a brilliant effect for the time being, as long asthe family are here; then they go back to the greenhouse.

Tea was served in the hall; every one was in the gayest of spirits, andcrowded around the piano to hear Prince Metternich's last waltz, which wasvery inspiring. After the music was finished and the tea-table removed, Iwas shown to my rooms; I reached them by a tiny winding staircase, thewalls of which were hung with Adrianople (turkey red), and covered withminiatures and fine engravings.

Dinner was served very sumptuously; the servants were in plush breeches
and had powdered hair. I sat on the left of Prince Metternich and next to
Count Kevenhüller, who is a Knight of Malta. I said to the Prince, "A
Knight of Malta always suggests to my mind romance and the Middle Ages."

"It shows," the Prince replied, "how naïve you are. It is true that he ismiddle-aged, but he has not a ray of romance in him. Don't trust him!Maltese Knights and Maltese cats do their killing on the sly."

During the dinner delicious Johannisberg was served alternately withordinary beer. Conversation alternated with laughter, and after dinneralbums and music alternated with flirtations. The Prince played some ofhis charming new songs. On the piano was a beautifully bound bookcontaining them. He pointed to it, saying, "I have had this made for you,"and showed me the title-page, where he had written, "À l'Inspiratrice!" Iwas tremendously pleased and sang all the songs, one after the other. ThePrince has had leisure to compose a great deal since he retired intoprivate life. He is wonderfully talented—not only for music, but forpainting. Everything he does he does better than any one else.

He said that during the war, when he was obliged to stay in Bordeaux, hewould have died of ennui if he had not had his music and drawing to occupyhim, especially as the Princess and the children were not with him, and hewas dreadfully lonely.

It was a lovely night, and we walked till very late on the terrace andgazed at the view across the Rhine, over the miles of vineyards and littlevillages sparkling with lights.

The Prince told me all about the Empress's flight from the Tuileries afterthe catastrophe of Sedan. He said that when the news came to the Embassythat the mob was about to enter the Tuileries he communicated with CountNigra (the Italian Ambassador), and they decided to go there instantly, tooffer their services to the Empress.

When they arrived there they saw the mob already before the gates. Theyleft their carriages on the quay, and entered by a door into the galleryof the Louvre, and hurried to the apartment of the Empress. There theyfound her with Madame Le Breton. She was very calm and collected, alreadydressed in a black-silk gown, and evidently prepared for flight. She hadin her hand a small traveling-bag, which contained some papers and a fewjewels.

Seeing them, she exclaimed, "Tell me, what shall I do?"

The Prince said, "What does General Trochu advise, your Majesty?"

"Trochu!" she repeated. "I have sent for him twice, but he does nottrouble himself to answer or to come to me."

Then the Prince said, "Count Nigra and I are here to put ourselvesentirely at your Majesty's service."

The Empress thanked them and said: "What do you think best for me to do?
You see how helpless I am."

The Prince answered that, according to their judgment, the wisest thingfor her Majesty to do would be to leave Paris at once, and added that hiscarriage was there and she could make use of it.

She then put on her hat and cloak and said, "I am ready to follow you."

They went through the Pavilion de Flore and through the Galerie du Louvreuntil they reached a small door leading out on to the quay, where the twocoupes were waiting. The Prince had already thought of one or two friendsto whom the Empress could go and remain until they joined her, to help herto devise some means for leaving Paris. He said that during the long walkthrough the gallery the Empress remained calm and self-possessed, thoughone could see that she was suffering intensely.

They reached the quay without hindrance and found the carriages. The
Prince opened the door of his and gave his orders to his coachman; but the
Empress suddenly refused, saying that she preferred to go in a cab, and
begged them not to follow her.

There was a cab-stand directly opposite where they stood. They hailed one,and she and Madame Le Breton were about to get in when a little boy criedout, "Voilà l'Impératrice!" Count Nigra, quick as thought, turned on theboy and said in a loud voice, "Comment! tu cries 'Vive la Prusse!" andboxed his ears, so that attention should be diverted from the Empress.

The Prince gave the names of the streets and the numbers of the houses tothe cabman where he had proposed to the Empress to go, and the ladiesdrove away.

"Did you not follow her?" I asked.

"Yes" he answered. "In spite of the Empress's wishes, after allowingenough time for her to get well on her way, we drove to the two addressesgiven, but did not find her at either of them. We could not imagine whathad happened to her."

"What had happened to her?" I asked.

"It was only after hours of the greatest anxiety that we ourselves knew.About six o'clock I received a note from the Empress saying that she hadgone to the two houses we had named, but that no one was there, and then,not knowing what to do, had in despair thought of Dr. Evans, the dentist,and had driven to his house, where she was in safety for the moment."

"What a dreadful moment for the Empress! How did she dare to send the noteto you?"

"It was imprudent," said the Prince; "but she intrusted it to Dr. Crane,who happened to be dining with Dr. Evans. He brought it to me and gave itinto my own hands."

"Did you go to see her?"

"Yes, I went to see her; but strict orders had been given not to let anyone enter, not even me."

The Prince showed me this letter, which he kept locked up in a desk.Seeing the tears in my eyes, he said, giving me the envelope, "I know youwill value this, and I beg you will keep it."

[Illustration: FAC-SIMILE OF LETTER:

À Son Altesse Le Prince de Metternich

L. Napoléon.]

I told him that I would value it more than any one possibly could, and didnot know how to thank him enough.

He told me a great deal more about the Empress, her hardships and trials,and how brave she had been through them all. She never uttered a word ofreproach against any one, except against Trochu, whom she called an arch-traitor. He told me also of the last time he had seen her Majesty atChiselhurst, and how sad this interview had been. The beautiful and adoredEmpress of France now a widow and an exile! I was sorry that ourconversation was interrupted—I could have listened for hours; but tea wasannounced, and we were obliged to leave the library.

The next day the Prince and his friends were deeply engaged in making akite; they tried everything imaginable to coax it to fly, but it refused.The Prince even mounted a ladder, hoping to catch the wind by holding ithigher; but all in vain. The moment he let go, down flapped the kite withalmost human spitefulness.

After the Prince had said saperlotte! twenty times, they gave up thekite and played tennis, a new game, over which he is as enthusiasticas he used to be over croquet, until the blast of a horn announced thearrival of the archducal four-in-hand, which they were expecting.

Then there was a hurried putting on of coats and wiping of perspiringbrows, and they all went forward to receive the Archduke Louis, who haddriven over from Wiesbaden to spend the day, bringing with him someyounger gentlemen.

Prince Metternich immediately proposed their playing tennis. Some of themwere eager to do so, but the Archduke, being fatigued by his long drive,begged to go to his room until luncheon.

Then, while the gentlemen were playing tennis, the Princess took me to thekitchen-garden to show me the American green-corn, planted from seedswhich we had given to her at Petit Val four years ago. She told me, withgreat joy, that we were to have some for dinner.

After luncheon we were invited to visit the famous wine-vaults. Theintendant appeared with the keys, and, accompanied by a subordinate, wefollowed him down the stairs to the heavily bolted oak door, which heopened with a flourish. The first thing we saw, on entering, wasWillkommen in transparencies in front of the entrance.

These cellars had the same dimensions as the castle, one hundred feet eachway. Rows and rows of large casks placed close together lined the walls,and each cask had a lighted candle upon it embedded in plaster. Lamps hungat intervals from the vaulted ceiling, giving a weird look to the longalleys, which seemed to stretch out for miles through the dim vista.

We walked on. Every little while we came to what the Prince called acabaret, and what the Princess called more poetically a bosquet, butwhich literally was a table and chairs surrounded by plants. The smell ofthe wine was overpowering. When we reached bosquet No. 1 the intendanthanded each of us a full glass of Johannisberg, the same that was servedat the table; at bosquet No. 2 we received only half a glass of a finerquality. At bosquet No. 3, on the walls of which were the initials ofthe duch*ess d'Ossuna (E. O., formed by candles), we only got a liqueurglassful.

The farther we went the older, and therefore the more valuable, the winewas, and the less we were given. When we reached bosquet No. 6, thelast stop, we were allowed a discreet sip from a sherry glass, which waspassed on from one to the other like a loving-cup.

We were told that the wines from the years 1862 and 1863 are considered tobe the best. It is strange that they are entirely different from eachother; the first is very sweet and the second is very dry.

What was my surprise to see here, "I know a Lillie fair to see," againstthe walls designed in candles. The Princess told me that the Prince hadbeen a long time making this, and I hope I showed due appreciation of thecompliment. I was immensely flattered.

The wine is the color of amber, or pale yellow, according to the year, andtastes delicious; the aroma reminds one of sandalwood.

The wines of the best years are only sold in bottles bearing the cachet ofthe Prince's arms, and the autograph of the intendant; the color of theseal denotes the quality. Cabinet bleu is the best that can be bought;the less fine qualities are sold in barrels.

You will be interested to hear how they gather the grapes. It is verycarefully done: each bunch is picked like a flower, and each grape isselected with the greatest care; any grape with the slightest imperfectionis discarded. They remain longer on the vines here than anywhere else, sothat the sweetness of the grape is doubly concentrated.

A good year will produce from sixty to eighty thousand bottles, and bringin an income of one hundred and fifty thousand marks.

The company which built the railroad through the grounds had to pay anenormous sum for the land, every inch of which is worth its weight ingold.

You may imagine the despair of the intendant when he sees so much of thisvaluable land taken for the croquet and tennis games; but the last strawis—the corn!

One of the guests here, duch*ess d'Ossuna, is a very striking and handsomelady who has been a great beauty and is still, though now about fortyyears old. Her husband is one of the richest men in Spain, but is in suchwretched health that she has expected hourly to be a widow for many years.

Coming away from the insidious fumes of the wine into the hot air, andleaving the dark cellars for the glaring broad daylight, made us all feela little lightheaded. I noticed that the Archduke had to be gently andwith due discretion aided up the steps.

He dropped into the first available bench and said, solemnly and withconviction: "To see this wine makes one want to taste it; to taste itmakes one want to drink it; to drink it makes one want to dream."

I hope that you appreciate this profound saying; it ought not to be lostto posterity.

We left him, thinking he would prefer the society of his adjutant to ours.I knew that I preferred mine to any one else's, and went to my room,mounting its winding staircase, which I thought wound more than wasnecessary. Taking guests into wine-cellars is the great joke here, and itnever fails.

Every one was in exuberant spirits at dinner. I wish I could remember halfof the clever things that were said. The corn came on amid screams ofdelight. Our hostess ate thirteen ears, which, if reduced to kernels,would have made about one ordinary ear, there was so much cob and solittle corn. The Princess enjoyed them hugely.

Coffee was served on the terrace. Later we had music in the hall, andbefore the departure of the Archduke there was a fine display of fireworkssent off from the terrace, which must have looked splendid from adistance.

SOMMERBERG, August, 1874.

DEAR M.,—Prince Emil Wittgenstein and his wife have a pretty villa atWalhuf, directly on the Rhine, and they invited Helen and me to dine andspend the night there. Prince Wittgenstein promised to show us somewonderful manifestations from spiritland. Helen is not a believer, neitheram I, but the Prince thinks I am, and, as Helen could not leave herguests, I went alone.

The Prince wrote that he had induced, with great difficulty (and probablywith a great deal of expense), the much-talked-of Miss Cook to come withher sister to pay them a visit at their villa. Miss Cook is the mediumthrough whom the Empress Josephine and Katie King (a lady unknown to theworld, except as being the daughter of a certain old sea-captain, calledJohn King, who roamed the seas a hundred years ago and pirated) manifestthemselves.

I was delighted to have this chance of seeing Miss Cook, because I hadread in the English papers that she had lately been shown up as a giganticfraud. At one of her séances in London, just as she was in the act ofmaterializing in conjunction with the Empress Josephine, a gentleman,disregarding all rules of etiquette, sprang from the audience and seizedher in his arms; but instead of melting, as a proper spirit would havedone, the incensed Empress screamed and scratched and tore herself away,actually leaving bits of her raiment in his hands. This rude gentlemanswears that the imperial nails seemed wholly of earthly texture, and thatthe scratches were as thorough and lasted as well as if made by any commonmortal.

Since this incident Miss Cook had thought it wiser to retire into privatelife, and has secured a husband calling himself Corner. PrinceWittgenstein found her, and, wishing to convert his wife, could think ofno better way than to let her see Miss Cook materialize. The wife and herfriend, Princess Croy, are avowed disbelievers.

Our dinner was dull beyond words. There were the Prince Nicholas-Nassauand his wife; the Duke Esslingen, who is nearly blind, without a wife butwith convictions; Count and Countess de Vay, and the two English ladiesalready mentioned. Miss Cook, alias Mrs. Corner, is a washed-out blond,rather barmaidish-looking English girl of medium (oh dear! I really didnot mean to) height and apparently very anemic.

After dinner we were led into the room in which the séance was to takeplace, and were seated round a large table, and told to hold our tonguesand one another's hands; the gas was turned down to the lowest point, thelamps screwed down, and there we sat and waited and waited.

The poor host was chagrined beyond utterance; something was the matterwith the magnetic current. Sometimes he would tap on the table to attractthe attention of the spirit underneath, but nothing helped; the spiritswere obstinate and remained silent.

I ventured to ask the Duke, by the side of whom I sat and held on to, inwhat manner the spirits made known their answers. He said that one knockmeant "yes," no knock meant "no," and two knocks meant "doubtful." At lastwe heard a timid knock in the direction of Mrs. Corner. Then every one wasalert. Prince Wittgenstein addressed the spot and whispered in his mostseductive tones, "Dear spirit, will you not manifest yourself?" Two knocks(doubtful).

"Is the company seated right?" (Silence, meaning "no.")

"Is the company congenial?" (Silence.)

To find out who the uncongenial person was, every one asked, in turn, "Isit I?" until Princess Wittgenstein put the question, upon which came avigorous single knock.

"My dear," said the Prince, "I am sorry to say it, but you must go."

So she left, nothing loath. We all thought for sure something would happennow, but nothing did.

Prince Wittgenstein commenced the same inquiries, whether the company wasnow congenial; but it seemed that Princess de Croy was de trop, andshe was also obliged to leave the room. (You see, the spirits did not liketo single out the hostess alone.) Now we were reduced to nine believerswith moist hands.

Would the Empress not now appear? We waited long enough for her to make upher mind; but it seemed that neither her mind nor anything else was readyto be made up. The spirits were perhaps willing, but the flesh was tooweak. Then Mrs. Corner remembered that at the last sitting the Empress haddeclared that she would never appear on German soil (her feelings havingbeen wounded during the Franco-German War).

There still remained Katie King. We had not heard from her yet. PrinceWittgenstein addressed the table under his fingers: "Oh, dear spirits, dodo something! Anything would be acceptable!" How could he or she resistsuch humble pleadings?

Then some one felt a cold wind pass over his face. Surely something washappening now!

"It must be Katie King about to materialize," said the hopeful Prince.

Then we saw a dim light. We strained our eyes to the utmost to discoverwhat it was. I should have said, if I had been truthful, that to me itlooked like a carefully shaded candle; but I held my tongue. The hand ofmy neighbor was fast becoming jelly in mine, and I would have given worldsto have got my hand out of the current; but I did not dare to interferewith it, and I continued to hold on to the jelly. Whoever was beingmaterialized was doing it so slowly, and without any kind of system, thatwe hardly had the patience to sit it out. Then a tambourine walked up someone's arm, Prince Nassau's spectacles were pulled off his august nose byinvisible hands (of course, who else would have dared?), thus making himmore near-sighted than ever. His wife's necklace of turquoises wasunclasped from her neck and hooked on to the neck of the acolyte sister;but on anxious and repeated demands to have it returned, it was replaced,much to the owner's relief. Prince Wittgenstein thought it silly of her tohave so little confidence. Suddenly, while necklaces were changing necks,we saw what looked like a cloud of gauze. We held our breaths, the rapsunder the table redoubled, and there were all sorts of by-play, such ashair-pulling and arm-pinching, but no Katie. The gauze which was going tobe her gave up trying and disappeared altogether. "Never mind," said thePrince. "It does not matter [I thought so, too.] She will come to-morrownight."

This was very depressing; even Prince Wittgenstein was utterly discouragedand decided to break up the séance, and, groping his way to the nearestlamp, turned it up. We went into the other salon, where we found the twodiscarded ladies sitting peacefully before a samovar and playing a game oftwo-handed poker.

Miss Cook told Prince Wittgenstein that Katie King would probablymaterialize if she had the promise of getting a sapphire ring which hewore (a beautiful sapphire). Miss Cook suggested that if this ring couldbe hung up on a certain tree in the garden Katie King would come and getit, and would certainly materialize the next evening. Prince Wittgensteinwas credulous enough to pander to this modest wish, and hung up thedesired ring, hoping Katie King would return it when she was in the flesh.But Miss Cook had a succession of fainting fits which necessitated hersudden departure for England, so we never saw Katie King, neither didPrince Wittgenstein ever get his ring back, as far as I know.

September, 1874.

Last Tuesday we three—Count and Countess Westphal and I—left Wiesbaden,slept at Frankfort, and starting the next morning at eleven o'clock, wearrived at our destination at 5.00 P.M. We found three carriages; one forus and two for the maids and luggage. Halfway to the castle we met,driving the lightest and prettiest of basket-wagons, our host and hostess,Count and Countess W—; the latter got into the carriage with us and oneof us took her place by the side of the host. We passed through thevillage, which had but one street, irregular and narrow, and we were inconstant danger of running over the shoals of little children who stoodstupidly in the middle of it, gazing at us with open eyes and mouth.

The Schloss is a very large, square building, with rounded towers in thefour corners. It has been remodeled, added to, and adorned so many timesthat it is difficult to tell to which style of architecture it belongs.The chapel is in an angle and opens on to the paved courtyard.

Our first evening was spent quietly making acquaintance with the otherguests. The next morning we lunched at eleven o'clock, the gentlemen inknickerbockers and shooting attire, the ladies in sensible gowns of lightmaterial over silk petticoats. Simplicity is the order of the day. Ourlunch consists of many courses, and we might have lingered for hours ifthe sight of the postman coming up the avenue had not given us the excuseto leave the table and devote ourselves to our correspondence, which hadto be done in double-quick time, as the postman only waited a shortfifteen minutes, long enough to imbibe the welcome cup of coffee or theglass of beer which he found waiting him in the kitchen. The Countess,although the mother of a young man twenty-four years of age, has a pink-and-white complexion and a fine, statuesque figure. She is a Russian ladyby birth, and does a lot of kissing, as seems to be the custom in Russia.She told me that when a gentleman of a certain position kisses your handyou must kiss his forehead.

"Isn't this rather cruel toward the ladies?" I said.

"Why," she asked, "do you think it is cruel?"

"Ladies sometimes have on gloves when they give their hands to be kissed,whereas there are some foreheads which ought to have gloves on before theyare kissed."

The young Count, when he returned from the races at Wiesbaden, broughtwith him a young American who had been presented to him by a friend ofhis, who said that Mr. Brent, of Colorado (that was his name), was very"original" and ausserordenlich charmant. And he was both charming and(especially) original; but not the type one meets in society.

He was a big, tall, splendidly built fellow with the sweetest face and theliquidest blue eyes one can imagine. He had a soft, melodious voice andthe most fascinating manner, in spite of his far-Western language. Everyone liked him; my American heart warmed to him instantly, and even theaustere grande dame, our hostess, was visibly captivated, and the primGerman governess drank in every word he said, intending, no doubt, toimprove her English, which otherwise she never got a chance to speak.

The two young men arrived yesterday just in time for tea. When theCountess asked him, in her most velvety tones, "Do you take sugar, Mr.Brent?" "Yes, ma'am, I do—three lumps, and if it's beety I take four." (Itrembled! What would he say next?) "I've got a real sweet tooth," he said,with an alluring smile, to which we all succumbed. The governess,remembering what hers had been before acquiring her expensive false set,probably wondered how teeth could ever be sweet.

While dressing for dinner I shuddered at the thought of what his dinnertoilet might be; but I cannot say how relieved I was when I saw him appear(he was the last to appear) dressed in perfect evening dress, in thelatest fashion, except his tie, which was of white satin and very badlytied. The salon in which we met before dinner is a real museum of rarepictures, old furniture, and curiosities. The walls are hung with oldItalian faïences and porcelains. A huge buffet, reaching to the ceiling,is filled with Venetian goblets and majolica vases.

A vast chimneypiece, under which one can stand with ease, is ornamentedwith a fine iron bas-relief of the family arms, and a ponderous pair ofandirons which support a heavy iron bar big enough to roast a wild boaron. Count G—— called Mr. Brent's attention to it, and Mr. Brent said,pleasantly, "I suppose this is where the ancestors toasted theirpatriarchal toes."

At dinner he sat next to the governess, and I could see her trying todigest his "original" language; and I was near enough to overhear some oftheir conversation. For instance, she asked him what his occupation was inhis native land. "Oh," he said, "I do a little of everything, mostlyfarming. I've paddled my own canoe since I was a small kid."

"Is there much water in your country-place?" she inquired.

"Don't you mean country? Well, yes, we have quite a few pailfuls overthere, and we don't have to pull a string to let our waterfalls down."

My neighbor must have thought me very inattentive; but I felt that I couldnot lose a word of Mr. Brent's conversation. The vestibule (or "Halle," asthey called it), where we went after dinner, used to be occupied by theCorps du Garde. It had vaulted ceilings and great oak beams, and wasfilled with hunting implements of all ages arranged in groups on thewalls very artistically; there were cross-bows, fencing-swords, masks,guns (old and new), pistols, etc. Mr. Brent was very much impressed bythis collection, gazed at the specimens with sparkling admiration, andremarked to the governess, who was always at his elbow, "I never saw sucha lot of things [meaning the weapons] outside of a shindy."

"What is a shindy?" inquired the governess, always anxious to improve herknowledge of the language.

"Why, don't you know what a shindy is? No? Well, it's a free fight, whereyou kill promiscuous."

"Gott im Himmel!" almost screamed the terrified damsel. "Do you mean tosay that you have killed any one otherwise than in a duel?"

"I can't deny that I have killed a few," Mr. Brent said, cordially, "butnever in cold blood."

"How dreadful!" his listener cried.

"But you see, over there," pointing with his cigar into the vague (towardColorado), "if a man insults you, you must kill him then and there, andyou must always be heeled."

"Heeled!" she repeated, puzzled. "Do they always get well?"

Neither understood.

Probably she thinks to this day that a shindy is an exceptionally goodhospital.

The Count said, "This room is a very good specimen of Renaissance style."

Mr. Brent replied, "I don't know what 'renny-saunce' means, but this roomis the style I like"; and added, "It's bully; and to-morrow I'd like totake a snap-shot of it and of all the company to show mother, if [with hischarming smile] you will let me."

"You shall take that and any other thing you like," said the Count. "Howlong do you intend staying in Europe?"

"That depends," answered Mr. Brent. "I came across the pond because thedoctor said I needed rest and change."

"I hope that you have had them both," the Count said, kindly.

"I got the change, all right; but the hotel-keepers got the rest, as thestory goes."

Every one laughed and voted the young and clever American perfectlydelightful.

The Countess extended her jeweled hand when she bade him good night, thehand that always had been held with reverence and pressed gently to lips,and felt it seized in a grip which made her wince.

"Madame, you are just as sweet as you can be. I cottoned to you right offthe minute I saw you, just as I did to 'sonny,' over there," pointing tothe noble scion of the house. The governess made a note of the word"cotton." The Countess was dumfounded; but our young friend seeming sounconscious of having said or done anything out of the way, she simply,instead of resenting what in another would have been most offensive,looked at him with a lovely, motherly smile, and I am sure she wanted toimprint a kiss on his forehead à la Russe.

The next morning the Countess mentioned that she had a quantity of oldtapestries somewhere about in the house. "Where are they?" we allexclaimed. "Can we not see them?"

"Certainly, but I do not know where they are," answered the Countess.
"They may be in the stables."

We went there, and sure enough we found, after rummaging about in thelarge attic, a quantity of old tapestries: three complete subjects(biblical and pastoral), all of them more or less spoiled by rats andindiscriminate cutting.

It amused me to see in the servants' dining-room some good old pictures,while in ours the walls were covered with modern engravings.

We were about thirty at table, and in the servants' hall there were nearlysixty persons. Lenchen, my old-maid maid, puts on her best and only black-silk dress every day and spends hours over her toilette for dinner.

Mr. Tweed, the English trainer, says that the stables here are among thefinest in Germany, and that the Count owns the best race-horses in theland, and is a connoisseur of everything connected with horses.

Our Colorado friend did not seem at all overwhelmed with the splendor ofthe stables, but with a knowing eye, examining the horses (feet, fetlocks,and all), and without further preliminaries, said, "This one is not worthmuch, and that one I would not give two cents for, but this fellow,"pointing to the Count's best racer, "is a beauty."

Mr. Tweed's amazement at this amateur (as he supposed him to be) wasturned into admiration when Mr. Brent walked into the paddock, asked for arope, and proceeded to show us how they lasso horses in America. Every onewas delighted at this exhibition.

Then Mr. Tweed brought out the most unruly horse he had, which none of theEnglish or German grooms could mount. Mr. Brent advanced cautiously, andwith a few coaxing words got the horse to stand quiet long enough for himto pass his hand caressingly over his neck. But putting the saddle on himwas another matter; the horse absolutely refused to be saddled. So whatdid our American friend do but give one mighty spring and land on thehorse's bare back. He dug his strong legs into the sides of the horse, andthough the horse kicked and plunged for a while, it succumbed finally andwas brought in tame and meek.

Nothing could have pleased the Count more than this, and the rest of uswere lost in admiration.

Mr. Brent invited all the stable-boys en bloc to come over to America tosee him; he guessed he "and the boys could teach them a trick or two."

After luncheon Mr. Brent wanted us all to come out on the lawn to bephotographed, particularly the Countess, and said to the young Count, "Youtackle the missis [meaning the Countess], and I'll get the others."

Of course no one refused. How could we resist such a charmer? Who couldever have believed that this simple, unaffected youth could have socompletely won all hearts?

He said to the Countess while "fixing" her for the group, "I wanted you,because you remind me so of my dear old mother." The Countess actuallypurred with ecstasy; but I don't think she would have liked to be comparedto any "old" thing (mother or not) by anybody else. In this case shemerely looked up at him and smiled sweetly, and as for the blasé,stately Count, he simply would not let him out of his sight.

At last the group was arranged according to Mr. Brent's ideas; the hostand hostess in the center, while the others clustered around them.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, please look pleasant," said Mr. Brent, and weall took the attitude we remembered to have looked well in on some formeroccasion, and hoped we looked "pleasant," and that "mother," whencontemplating us, would approve of us.

The Count's birthday happened to be on one of these days. Mr. Brent, whohad intended to leave, was urged by both him and the Countess to stay. Theyoung Count said, "Papa would be really unhappy if you went away." "That'sreal nice of him; you bet I'll stay, then." On the day itself he was all-pervading. It was he who hung the heavy garlands and wreaths on thehighest poles, agile as a cat, and draped the flags about the escutcheonsplaced everywhere. He helped the ladies arrange the flowers in theinnumerable vases in the salons. He it was who led the applause when thedeputation of young people from the village made their speech, and whenthe Count responded, in his most dignified and courtly manner, Mr. Brentcried out, in a most enthusiastic voice, "Good for you!"

In the evening there were visits from all the surrounding neighborhood;the ladies wore tiaras and all their jewels, and the gentlemen all theirdecorations; there was a grand supper in the state dining-room. Although Isuppose it was the first time Mr. Brent had ever seen such a sight, he didnot seem in the least astonished. He circulated about the distinguishedcompany and made himself most agreeable indiscriminately to young and old.He was in full glory, and certainly was the life of the evening, whichfinished brilliantly with a grand display of fireworks set off from thetower, so that they could be seen from far and near.

The next day Mr. Brent left. When he bade me good-by he said: "Good-by,ma'am. If I have had a good time here, I owe it all to you." "Oh no, youdon't!" I said. "You owe it all to yourself, and you may say to yourmother, from me, that you won all hearts."

He sighed and turned away his head, giving my hand an extra squeeze. "Ifyou ever come to Colorado, just ask any one for Johnny Brent, and if Idon't stand on my head for you it'll be because I've lost it."

His leave-taking of the Countess was almost pathetic. He held her handlong and tenderly, and said, "I can't find any word, ma'am—I mean,Countess—but—thank you, thank you, that's all I can say."

And the Countess (we thought she would faint) put her hand on hisshoulder. He bent his head, and she kissed him on his forehead; and he(were the heavens going to fall?) stooped down and kissed her cheek.

The Count said: "Good-by, my boy. Come again to see us"—and going to thewalls where his collection of pistols hung, took one of them and handed itto him "This will remind you of us, but don't kill any one with it."

"Never," said Mr. Brent. "I will hang it round my neck."

Thus departed our American hero, for who but a hero could have stormedsuch a fortress and broken down all the traditional barriers?

A day or two later we received a visit from royalty, in the person of
Prince Frederick Charles of Prussia.

In the evening we played a wonderful game called taroc, which was veryintricate and almost impossible to learn. Old Baron Kessler, who undertookto teach it to me, got so sleepy that he actually yawned in my face.

This Baron Kessler is quite a character—very clever, very artistic, verymusical, and, strange to say, very superstitious. For instance, he wearsan old waistcoat which has certain magical grease-spots on Fridays; onMondays his purse must be in the left pocket of his coat, on Thursdays inhis right pocket. He drinks nine times before twelve o'clock on specialdays, and has a cigar-case for each different day of the week. He hateslosing at cards, and when he does it is quite an affair; and I am not surethat prayers are not offered up for him by his family in the chapel on hisbaronial estates.

The last thing I saw was a vision of Herr Lenning (the head butler), whois sometimes a little shaky himself, helping the Baron up the stairs.Possibly it was the evening of the nine-drink morning.

Next day we all left, except the old Baron, who for reasons of his ownremained.

WEIMAR, September, 1874.

DEAR M.,—I thought it would be a good idea to go to Weimar, the placepar excellence to study German, the Germans, and their literature;and, moreover, my boy might go to school there. Mrs. Kingsland had givenme a letter to the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and recommended the place,not because she knew the town, but because she knew the Grand Duke.Besides, had I not a dear cousin who had written a most attractive bookabout Weimar, combined with Liszt and his enchantments?

I was all enthusiasm.

I decided to go to the hotel which Liszt honored. The proprietor put meinto Liszt's very room, where a framed letter of his hung on the wall….This did not in the least overcome me, as I had several of Liszt's lettersat home. But what did overcome me was that I was charged four times theprice of any other hotel, on Liszt's account!

Weimar may be very pleasant in the season when the little Court sheds itsmild light about; but out of the season, especially at this time of theyear, when there is nothing but dried and fluttering leaves, students, anddogs in the streets, I found it woeful. It was reeking of Schiller andGoethe. For two marks you can have a pretty good idea of how these greatmen lived and had their being. Everywhere we turned, and we turnedeverywhere, there were statues, busts, autographs, writing-desks, beds,and wash-stands which had belonged to them. I admired everything until myvocabulary of exclamations was exhausted and my head whirled.

I told Howard, as young as he was, I would not have him Goethed andSchillered, as he certainly would be if he stayed here; so I changed myplans and made up my mind to accept the invitation of my friend theCountess Westphal to make her a visit at her château in Westphalia. Wetook a train which dropped us at her station, where she met us and droveus to Fürstenberg.

Westphalia is renowned for its hams. Perhaps you don't know this,therefore I tell you. It is also renowned for the independent spirit ofthe Westphalians.

FÜRSTENBERG, 1874.

DEAR M.,—This château is a fine old castle, with rounded towers andmysterious passages, and has a village tucked on to it. The familyconsists of the Countess, the Count, and three children, a tutor, agoverness, and everything which belongs to the old families and theirtraditions. The mysterious passages possessed no ghosts, for which I wassorry, though my maid (a timid and naïve old German maiden) thought thatshe heard "things" at night when she came up the dark, winding stonestaircase which led to my room.

Life passed quietly at Fürstenberg. Countess Westphal and I amusedourselves with music and embroidery and listening to the Count's report ofhis hunting expeditions.

One day, in a spasm of energy, she proposed to take me to see a friend ofhers, Countess B——, who, she said, lived quite near. We would spend thenight, returning the next day. She thought it would be a very pleasant andentertaining little excursion for us.

She telegraphed to Countess B—— that we were coming without maids, andwith only necessary baggage; and my maid immediately went to work to packwhat she considered necessary for this visit. She put a dinner-dress, withhigh and low waists, as the occasion might require, an extra day-dress,and all kinds of accessories, filling a good-sized trunk.

We started early the next morning. Countess Westphal was full of happyexpectations; so was I. We were four hours on the way before we reachedour destination; but Countess Westphal cheerfully remarked that time wasof no consequence.

On our arrival at the forlorn little station I looked in vain for thelordly chariot I thought would be waiting for us. Countess Westphal seemedastonished also, but with her usual good-nature accounted for the absenceof the chariot by saying that her friend could not possibly have receivedthe telegram. We lingered about, hoping that some vehicle would appear;but as none did so, Countess Westphal started off to find one, and shefinally succeeded in tempting a man, for the vast sum of four marks, todrive us to the schloss.

After the coachman had gathered the reins off the back of the old, ricketyhorse, I leaned back in my seat and pictured to myself what this beautifulschloss we were going to would be like.

Of course, it would have a moat around it (all old castles do); it wouldhave all the modern comforts combined with the traditions of past glories;it would have avenues of grand old trees and marble statues, and terracesleading into Italian gardens, and so forth. In fact, my imagination got soriotous that I forgot to look at the treeless, muddy roads, and I nevernoticed the wrenching of the ancient landau in which we were.

As we were jolted over the desolate landscape, Countess Westphal tried totell me the family history of the B——s, but I only gathered bits of ithere and there; such as that he was the fourth son of a very distinguishedfather and mother, and had no prospect worth speaking of, except theprospect of the dreary place we were careering over; that they never lefttheir native heath and had no children, and that they lived on theirestate (being the only thing they had to live on), and so forth and soforth, all of which went in at the ear next the Countess and went out atthe ear next the road.

Finally we spied the schloss. It had been a convent in some formercentury, and still had iron bars on the windows. We drove through a muddylane, passing a sort of barn with grated loopholes, and stopped before acourtyard filled with chickens and geese; on the left was a pigsty,smelling not at all like Westphalian hams, and on the other side a cow-stable. In front was the schloss and the lady of the manor, thehonorable Countess herself, on the steps, quite by chance, so it seemed.She led us proudly into the salon. A large bunch of keys hung at hergirdle. I wondered why she needed so many! After the coal-bin, wine-vault,and sugar-bowl, and linen-closet had been locked up, what more did sheneed to lock up? There was no mention that the telegram had been received.Strange!

Count B—— was not there, "but would be coming soon." I felt that I couldwait. The salon was of the kind that one often sees in houses where themistress, having no children and plenty of time, embroiders things. Everypossible object had a coat of arms and huge crowns embroidered on it, sothat you could never forget that you were in the house of ancientnobility, which had the right to impose its crowns on you. All the chairs,tables, sideboards, and things on the walls were made out of the horns ofstags and other animals the Count had shot. Sometimes the chairs werecovered with the skin of the same, minus the hair, which was missing andmoth-eaten in spots.

I was taken up-stairs to my bedroom, and I was thankful to see that thehorns and crowns had nearly given out before they finished furnishing thefirst story, and that I had an ordinary middle-class chair to sit on.There were many pictures of Madonnas and saints, from which I inferredthat our hosts were Catholics, and a prie-dieu, which, strange to say,was made of horns; and the mat in front of my bed was a blaze of theunited coats of arms and two crowns! So she was a Countess born, whichaccounted for the doubleness.

We were obliged to make le tour du propriétaire, and, of course, asthere was no other place to take us to, we went to the stables. There weadmired the two cows (Stella and Bella) with horns. They had their namespainted in blue and white over their respective heads, but they had nocrowns.

Then the Count appeared in very nice clothes. I fancy, while we had beenadmiring Stella and Bella, he had been changing his boots. Owing to thesefresh boots we were spared the pigsties. On our return to the houseCountess B—— said, "You know, we don't dress for dinner." I thought withdismay of my trunk laden with all its superfluous contents, and what abore the bringing of it had been, and the opinion my maid would pass onour noble hosts, who "don't dress for dinner," when she unpacked theundisturbed finery which she had thought indispensable.

After dinner the conversation was chiefly pastoral, of the kind I do notjoin in because I hate it. How many chickens had died, how Bella andStella had borne last winter's cold, how many sacks of potatoes had beenspoiled, etc. My Countess enjoyed it immensely, and sat on a horny chairand sympathized. Our host took pity on me and taught me a patience. I hadknown it all my life as "the idiot's delight," but I pretended I had neverheard of it before, and he had the satisfaction of thinking he wasentertaining me—which he wasn't! On the contrary, Job's patience nevercould have equaled this one; the Count talked French fluently. The dinnerwas not good, nor was it frugal.

The Count said, "Nous n'avons que le stricte nécessaire, rien de plus."

The Countess said, in English, "One can't have in the country all that onewants."

I could not help feeling that one could not have even the half of what onewanted, and more than once I caught myself thinking, "None but the bravedeserve this fare." They noticed if you took a second helping, and youfelt that they made a mental note if your glass was filled more than oncewith wine. However, it was all very nice, and they were very kind, goodpeople. It was not the Count's fault if the stags he killed had too manyhorns, neither was it the Countess's fault that time hung heavy on herhands and embroidery occupied them.

Fortunately we would go away next day, so what did it matter? But gettingaway was a very different thing from coming. When the Countess Westphalsuggested it, and said that we intended to take a certain train, the facesof our hosts presented a blank look of apprehension! Their horses wereplowing! What should we do? The doctor, they said, who lived in thevillage, had a carriage, but the horse was sick; there was, however, theschimmel of the baker, which, fortunately, was in good health, andperhaps, in conjunction with the wagon of the doctor, one could manage. Itsounded like a gigantic exercise of Ollendorff:

"Avez-vous le cheval du boulanger?"

"Non, mais j'ai le soulier du boucher," etc.

After what seemed an eternity, the wagon of the doctor appeared, so didthe schimmel. The wagon of the doctor, usually dragged by two animals,had a pole in the middle, to which the schimmel was attached, giving hima very sidelong gait. The question now was, who was to drive theschimmel attached to the pole?

The young man who milked the cows, killed the pigs, dressed the Count,picked the fruit, drove the Countess, waited at table, served everybody,did everything, and smelled awfully of the stables—could he be spared?

Well, he was spared, and off we started majestically, but sideways, wavinga courtly adieu. We reached home in a drenching rain, wondering what onearth ever possessed us to want to go to visit the noble B——s. I don'tthink I ever want to see that establishment again, and I don't think Iever shall.

FÜRSTENBERG, December.

DEAR M.,—The Duke of Nassau had promised to come here to shoot wildboars, for which this forest is celebrated. Count Westphal sentinvitations far and wide to call his hunting friends together. Before thearrival of the Duke, carriage after carriage entered the courtyard; oceansof fur-coats, gun-cases, valises, bags, and fur-lined rugs were thrownabout in the hall, to be sorted out afterward. Then the Duke drove up in asleigh with four horses, his aide-de-camp, two postilions, and a friend,both of them so wrapped up in pelisses and immense fur-caps thatyou could only see the tips of their red noses, like danger signals onrailroads. No wonder! They had had three hours of this cold sleigh-ride!

The quiet old schloss was transformed. Each guest had his own servantand chasseur. The servants helped to wait at dinner. The chasseurscleaned the guns, lounged about smoking their pipes, and looking mostpicturesque in their Tyrolean hats, with their leather gaiters, shortgreen jackets, and leather belts, in which they carried their hunting-knives and cartridges.

His Highness (who is very short and what one calls thick-set) wasaccompanied by a secretary, a chasseur, a valet, two postilions, twogrooms, and four horses. He had six guns, six trunks, and endless coats ofdifferent warmth. In the twinkling of an eye cigar-cases, pipes,photographs, writing-paper (of his own monogram), and masses ofetceteras were spread about in his salon, as if he could not even lookin his mirror without having these familiar objects before his eyes.

At twelve o'clock, high—very high—lunch was served. The servants broughtin the eatables in monstrous quantities, and disappeared; the guestshelped themselves and one another, and when without occupation fed thefire, where logs smoldered all day.

At a reasonable hour, after cigars and cigarettes had been smoked, thesleighs were ordered to be in readiness in the courtyard. Thirty or fortytreibers (beaters) had been out since early morn. The Count has fourteenthousand acres to be beaten, therefore an early start was necessary.

The hunters swallowed a bitter pill when they asked us ladies to accompanythem; but they knew their hostess would not let them go without her atleast, so why not take the tame bores while shooting the wild ones?

They portioned off one lady and one gentleman to each sleigh. Thesesleighs are very small, and contrived for the confusion of mankind. Yousit in a bag of sheep's skin, or perhaps the bag is simply two wholeskinned sheep sewed together. You must stretch your legs, thus pinioned onthe sides, out as far as they reach; then the driver puts a board overthem, on which he perches himself, nearly over the horse's tail, and offyou go. I cannot imagine what a man does with his legs if he has very longones.

The poor horses are so dressed up that, if they could see themselves, theywould not know if they were toy rabbits or Chinese pagodas. Over the horseis a huge net, which not only covers him from head to tail, but protectsthose in the sleigh from the snow flying in their faces. I should thinkthat this net would be excellent in summer to keep the flies off; it doescertainly suggest mosquito-netted beds and summer heat. Over the net is anarrangement which looks like a brass lyre, adorned with innumerable brassbells, which jingle and tinkle as we trot along, and make noise enough toawake all the echoes in the forest. On each side of the horse's head hanglong, white, horse-hair tails.

What did we look like as we proceeded on our way? A procession of eightsleighs, combining a ranz des vaches, a summer bed, and an antiquaryshop!

Arrived at the rendezvous, Count Westphal placed his guests by differenttrees. The best place, of course, fell to the Duke, and I had the honor tostand behind him and his gun. I hoped that neither would go off! The Dukeis very near-sighted and wears double-barreled spectacles, which havewindows on the sides, so that he can look around the corner withoutturning his head.

Every one was requested to be perfectly quiet, otherwise there would bedisaster all along the line. I could keep quiet very well, for a time,but the back view of a man crowned with a Tyrolean hat, and terminating ina monstrous pair of overshoes lined with straw, lost its interest after awhile, and I began to look at the scenery. It must be lovely here in thesummer. The valley, where a little brook meandered gracefully through themeadow (now ice and snow), bordered on both sides by high pine woods, mustthen be covered with flowers and fresh green grass, and full of light andshadow.

His Highness and I were under a splendid oak, and there we stood waitingfor something to happen. The Duke, the oak, and I were silencepersonified. A dead branch would crack, or the trunks of smaller andignorant pines would knock together, and the Duke would look around thecorner and say "Chut!" in a low voice, thinking I was playing a tattoo onthe tree.

"Now the beaters are on the scent!" he said. After this I hardly dared tobreathe.

"They have to drive the boar with the wind," he whispered.

"I thought they did it with sticks," I answered in a low tone.

To this remark he did not pay the slightest attention. Between a sneezeand a cough—we were rapidly catching our deaths—he said, under hisbreath, "If they smell us they go away."

The treibers work in couples, Count Westphal leading them. It isnot etiquette for the host to shoot; he must leave all the chances ofglory to his guests. Among the treibers were various servants andchasseurs carrying extra guns and short daggers for the final despatch(le coup de grâce). We heard them coming nearer and nearer, but we sawno boar. Many other animals came wonderingly forward: some foxes, trailingtheir long tails gracefully over the snow, looked about them and trottedoff; a furtive deer cautiously peered around with ears erect and trottedoff also; but it is not for such as these we stand ankle-deep in the snow,shivering with cold and half frozen. A shot now would spoil all the sport.One has a longing to talk when one is told to be quiet. I can't rememberever having thought of so many clever things I wanted to say as when Istood behind the ducal back—things that would be forever lost! And Itried to enter them and fix them in my brain, to be produced later; but,alas!

The Duke (being, as I said, very short-sighted) came near shooting one ofhis own servants. The man who carried his extra gun had tied the two endsof a sack in which he carried various things, and put it over his head tokeep his ears warm. Just as the Duke was raising his gun, thinking that ifit was not a boar it was something else, I ventured a gentle whisper,"C'est votre domestique, Monseigneur." "Merci!" he whispered back, in muchthe same tone he would have used had I restored him a dropped pocket-handkerchief.

Finally (there must be an end to everything) we saw beneath us, on theplains, three wild boars leaping in the snow, followed by a great manymore. They had the movements of a porpoise as he dives in and out of thewater, and of an ungraceful and hideous pig when hopping along.

The Duke fired his two shots, and let us hope two boars fell. The othersflew to right and left, except one ugly beast, who came straight towardour own tree. I must say that in that moment my little heart was in mythroat, and I realized that the tree was too high to climb and too smallto hide behind. The Duke said, in a husky voice, "Don't move, for God'ssake, even if they come toward us!"

This was cheery! Abraham's blind obedience was nothing to mine! Here wasI, a stranger in a foreign land, about to sacrifice my life on the shrineof a wild boar! Count Metternich, behind the next tree, fired and killedthe brute, so I was none the worse save for a good fright. It was hightime to kill him, for he began charging at the beaters, and threatened tomake it lively for us; and if Count Metternich had not, in the nick oftime, sent a bullet into him, I doubt whether I should be writing thislittle account to you at this moment.

There was a great deal of shouting, and the hounds were baying at the topof their lungs, and every one was talking at the same time and explainingthings which every one knew. Counting the guests, the servants, thetrackers, the dilettantes, there were seventy people on the spot; and Imust say, though we were transis de froid, it was an exhilarating sight—the snow is such a beautiful mise en scène. However, we were glad toget back into the sheep-skin bags and draw the fur rugs up to our noses,and though I had so many brilliant things to say under the tree I couldnot think of one of them on our way home.

Fourteen big, ugly boars were brought and laid to rest in the large hall,on biers of pine branches, with a pine branch artistically in the mouth ofeach. They weighed from one to three hundred pounds and smelledabominably; but they were immensely admired by their slayers, whopretended to recognize their own booty (don't read "beauty," for they wereanything but beautiful) and to claim them for their own. Each hunter hasthe right to the jaws and teeth, which they have mounted and hang on theirwalls as trophies.

Count Westphal has his smoking-room filled to overflowing with jaws,teeth, and chamois heads, etc. They make a most imposing display, and addfeathers to his already well-garnished cap.

Howard said, in French, to the Duke, in his sweet little voice, looking upinto his face, "I am so sorry for you!"

"Why?" inquired the Duke.

"Because the Prussians have taken your country."

We all trembled, not knowing how the Duke would take this; but he took itvery kindly, and, patting Howard on the back, said: "Thank you, my littlefriend. I am sorry also, but there is nothing to be done; but thank youall the same." And his eyes filled with tears.

The next day he gave Howard his portrait, with, "Pour mon petit ami,Howard, d'un pauvre chassé.—Adolf, Duc de Nassau." Very nice of him,wasn't it?

In the evening they played cards, with interruptions such as "Derverfluchte Kerl," meaning "a boar that refused to be shot," or "I couldeasily have killed him if my gun," etc., till every one, sleepy and tired,had no more conversation to exchange, and the Duke left, as he said, towrite letters, and we simpler mortals did not mind saying that we weredead beat and went to bed.

The next day being Sunday, I sang in the little church (Catholic, ofcourse, as Westphalia is of that religion). The organist and I had manyrehearsals in the schloss, but none in the church, so I had nevermade acquaintance with the village organ. If I had, I don't think I shouldhave chosen the Ave Maria of Cherubini, which has a final amble with theorgan, sounding well enough on the piano; but on that particular organ itsounded like two hens cackling and chasing each other. I had to mount thespiral staircase behind the belfry and wobble over the rickety planksbefore reaching the organ-loft. Fortunately, Count Metternich went with meand promised to stay with me till the bitter end; at any rate, he pilotedme to the loft. The organ was put up in the church when the church wasbuilt, in the year Westphalia asserted herself, whenever that was; Ishould say B.C. some time. It was probably good at that time, but it musthave deteriorated steadily ever since; and now, in this year of grace,owns only one row of keys, of which several notes don't work. There areseveral pipes which don't pipe, and an octave of useless pedals, which theorganist does not pretend to work, as he does not know how. However, thereis no use describing a village organ; every one knows what it is. Sufficeto say that I sang my Ave Maria to it, and the Duke and my hosts, milesbelow me, said it was very fine, and that the church had never heard thelike before, and never would again. Certainly not from me!…

The village itself is a pretty little village and very quaint; it hasbelonged to the schloss, as the schloss has to it, for centuries. Thehouses are painted white, and the beams of oak are painted black.

On the principal cross-beams are inscriptions from the Bible, cut in theoak, and the names of the people who built the house. There is one:"Joseph and Katinka, worthy of the grace of God, on whom He cannot fail toshower blessings. For they believe in Him." The date of their marriage andtheir virtues are carved also (fortunately they don't add the names of alltheir descendants). Sometimes the sentences are too long for the beam overthe door, and you have to follow their virtues all down the next beam.

This is perplexing on account of the German verb (which is like dessert atdinner—the best thing, but at the end), and gehabt or geworden issometimes as far down as the foot-scraper. Some houses are like barns: oneroof shelters many families, having their little booths under onecovering, and they sit peacefully at their work in front of their homessmoking the pipe of peace, and at the same time cure the celebrated hamswhich hang from the ceiling. I won't say all hams are cured in this way,because, I suppose, there are regular establishments which cureprofessionally. But I have seen many family hams curing in these barns.

The costumes of the women are wonderful, full of complexities; you have toturn them around before you can tell if she is a man or a woman; they wearhats like a coal-carrier in England, pantaloons, an apron, and—well! theCountess had a woman brought to the schloss and undressed, so thatwe could see how she was dressed. I ought to send a photograph, because Ican never describe her. There is a bodice of black satin, short in theback, over a plastron of pasteboard of the same, and a huge black-satincravat sticking out on both sides of her cheeks, a wadded skirt of bluealpaca, and pink leg-of-mutton sleeves. I can make nothing of thisdescription when I read it. I hope you can!

Count Metternich entertained us all the afternoon talking about himself.He has fought with the Emperor Maximilian in Mexico, and when he speaks ofhim the tears roll down his bronzed cheeks. He has fought in all DonCarlos's battles, and is a strong partisan of the Carlist party. Hisdescription of Don Carlos makes one quite like him (I mean Don Carlos). Hesaid that Don Carlos goes about in a simple black uniform and béret(the red cap of the Pyrenees), with the gold tassels and the Order of theGolden Fleece on his neck (I call that fantastic, don't you?). During hiscampaign he suddenly swoops down upon people, no matter what theircondition is, and immediately there is a sentinel placed before the door.The consigne is not strict: any one can come and go as he pleases:photographers, autographers, reporters, without hindrance, and there is ageneral invitation to tea at headquarters. He has an army of volunteers,of whom the Count is one. The rations are one-half pound of meat, one-halfpound of bread, and three-quarters liter of Navarre wine, which the Countsays is more fit to eat than to drink, "it is so fat." Navarre furnishesthe wine gratis, and promises to furnish twenty-four thousand rationsdaily as long as the war lasts. The artillery is "not good," CountMetternich added, but the officers are "colossal," a word in German thatexpresses everything.

Count Metternich is the greatest gentleman jockey in the world; he has notgot a whole bone in his body. They call him der Mexicano, as he is sobronzed and dark-skinned and has been in Mexico.

But he cannot rival Count Westphal, who, in his time, was not only thegreatest gentleman jockey, but a hero. At a famous race, where he was toride the horse of Count Fürstenberg, he fell, breaking his collar-bone andhis left arm; he picked himself up and managed to remount his horse. Heheld the reins in his mouth, and with the unbroken arm walloped the horse,got in first, and then fainted away.

It was the pluckiest thing ever seen, and won for him not only the race,but the greatest fame and his Countess, who made him promise never to ridein a race again, and he never has. She told me that many ladies faintedand men wept, so great was the excitement and enthusiasm! CountFürstenberg had a bronze statue made of the horse, and it stands on CountWestphal's table now, and is an everlasting subject of conversation.

The Duke invited us all to come to Lippspringe. He and all the hunting-menhave clubbed together and have hired the estate from the Baron B——, whoowns both house and country and is fabulously rich, so people say. Herethese gentlemen (I think there are twenty of them) go to pass two monthsevery year to hunt foxes. There are forty couples of foxhounds, which havebeen imported from England.

There were eight of us, and we quite filled the four-horse break, servantsand baggage followed later. We arrived at Paderborn, a thriving andinteresting town of historical renown (see Baedeker). A two hours' driveleft us rather cold and stiff, but we lunched on the carriage to savetime. At the hotel we found a relay of four fresh horses harnessed in theprincipal street, the English grooms exciting great admiration by theirneat get-up and their well-polished boots, and by the masterful mannerthey swore in English.

After racing through the quiet streets at a tearing pace, we arrived atthe villa (alias club-house) at six o'clock, in time to dress fordinner at eight. The gentlemen appeared in regular hunting-dress: redevening coats, white buckskin trousers, top-boots, white cravats, andwhite vests; the ladies were décolletées en grande toilette.

Our dinner lasted till ten o'clock. The French chef served a deliciousrepast; everything was faultless even to the minutest details; theservants were powdered, plushed, and shod to perfection. Then we went tothe drawing-room, where cards, smoking, billiards, and flirtation went onsimultaneously until the small hour of one, when we retired to our rooms.

Countess Westphal and I had adjoining rooms, very prettily furnished inchintz. Everything was in the most English style.

It is the correct thing here to affect awful clothes in the daytime. TheBaron (der alte Herr), when not hunting, wears an Italian brigandcostume (short breeches, tight leggings, stout boots) and some animal'sfront teeth sewed on his Tyrolean hat to hold the little feathers. But inthe evening, oh, dear me! nothing is equal to his elegance.

The next day the gentlemen (twenty in number), all splendidly mounted onEnglish hunters, rode off at eleven o'clock, masses of grooms andpiqueurs, with lots of hunting-horns and the dogs. We ladiesfollowed in the break. The masters of the hounds were already at therendezvous on the hill. They soon started a fox, and then the dogs toreoff yelping and barking, and the riders riding like mad; and we waited inthe carriages, sorry not to be with them. The red coats looked wellagainst the background; the dogs, all of the same pattern, were rushingabout in groups with their tails in the air; but while our eyes werefollowing them the fox ran right under our noses, within a hair's-breadthof our wheels. Of course the dogs lost the scent, and there was a generalstandstill until another fox was routed out, and off they flew again.Der alte Herr is very much thought of in these parts; he was the onlyone who dared oppose the House of Peers in Berlin in the question ofwar with Austria in 1866, and made such an astounding speech that he wasobliged to retire from politics and take to fox-hunting. He gave thespeech to me to read, and—I—well!—I didn't read it!

The Westphalians seem to go on the let-us-alone principle; they seem to beanti-everything—from Bismarck and Protestantism downward. I sang the lastevening of our stay here. The piano belonging to this hunting-lodge is asold as the alte Herr, and must have been here for years, and even atthat must be an heirloom. The keys were yellow with age and misuse, andif it had ever been in tune it had forgotten all about it now and was outof it altogether. I picked the notes out which were still good, and bysinging Gounod's "Biondina" in a loud voice and playing its dashingaccompaniment with gusto, I managed to keep myself awake. As for the tiredhunters who had been in the saddle all day, they were so worn out thatnothing short of a brass band could rouse them long enough for them tokeep their eyes open.

The next day we bade our hosts good-by and, thanking them for ourdelightful visit, we departed. I wonder if the gentlemen liked beingtrespassed upon as much as we did who did the trespassing. However, theywere polite enough to say that they had never enjoyed anything so much asour visit, and especially my singing. What humbugs! I was polite enoughnot to say that I had never enjoyed anything so little as singing forsleepy fox-hunters.

ROME, January, 1875.

DEAR MOTHER,—I am here in Rome, staying with my friends the Haseltines,who have a beautiful apartment that they have arranged in the mostsumptuous and artistic manner in the Palazzo Altieri. Mr. Haseltine hastwo enormous rooms for his studio and has filled them with his faultlesspictures, which are immensely admired and appreciated. His water-colorsare perfection.

I have met many of your friends whom you will be glad to hear about; tobegin with, the Richard Greenoughs, our cousins. We had much to talkabout, as we had not seen each other since Paris, when he made that bustof me. They are the most delightful people, so talented in their differentways, and are full of interest in everything which concerns me. She hasjust published a book called Mary Magdalene, which I think is perfectlywonderful.

I have made the acquaintance of William Story (the sculptor). He spoke ofyou and Aunt Maria as his oldest and dearest friends, and thereforeclaimed the right to call me Lillie.

I have not only seen him, but I have been Mrs. Story, Miss Story, and thethird story in the Palazzo Barberini, where they live, and I have alreadycounted many times the tiresome one hundred and twenty-two steps whichlead to their apartment, and have dined frequently with them in theirchilly Roman dining-room. This room is only warmed by the little apparatuswhich in Rome passes for a stove. It has a thin leg that sticks out of ahole in the side of the house and could warm a flea at a pinch.

The hay on the stone floor made the thin carpet warmer to my cold toes,which, in their evening shoes, were away down below zero, but my cold andbare shoulders shivered in this Greenland icy-mountain temperature whichbelongs to Roman palaces. This was before I was an habituée; but after Ihad become one I wore, like the other jewel-bedecked dames, woolenstockings and fur-lined overshoes. The contrast must be funny, if onecould see above board and under board at the same time.

The Storys generally have a lion for dinner and for their eveningentertainments. My invitations to their dinners always read thus: "DearMrs. Moulton,—We are going to have (mentioning the lion) to dinner. Willyou not join us, and if you would kindly bring a little music it would besuch a," etc. No beating about the bush there! The other evening MissHosmer—female rival of Mr. Story in the sculpturing line—was the lion ofthe occasion, and was three-quarters of an hour late, her excuse beingthat she was studying the problem of perpetual motion. Mr. Story, who is awit, said he wished the motion had been perpetuated in a botta (which isItalian for cab).

February 1st.

Last Thursday, at nine o'clock in the morning, a card was brought to mybedroom. Imagine my astonishment when I read the name of Baroness deC——, the wife of the French Ambassador to the Vatican. What could shewant at that early hour? I had heard many stories of her absent-mindedness. I thought that nothing less than being very absent-minded, orelse the wish to secure my help for some charity concert, could accountfor this matutinal visit, especially as I knew her so slightly.

To my great surprise she had only come to invite me to dinner, and nevermentioned the word charity concert or music. I thought this very strange;but as she is so distraite she probably did not know what time of day itwas, and imagined she was making an afternoon visit.

One of the stories about her is that once she went to pay a formal call onone of her colleagues, and stayed on and on until the poor hostess was indespair, as it was getting late. Suddenly the ambassadress got up andsaid, "Pardon, dear Madame, I am very much engaged, and if you havenothing further to say to me I should be very grateful if you would leaveme." The Baroness had been under the impression that she was in her ownsalon. They say that, one day, when she was walking in the Vatican gardenswith the Pope, and they were talking politics, she said to him, "Oh, allthis will be arranged as soon as the Pope dies!"

Well, we went to the dinner, which was quite a large one, and among theguests was Signor Tosti, which would seem to denote that there was,after all, "music in the air"; and sure enough, shortly after dinner theambassadress begged me to sing some petite chose, and asked Tosti toaccompany me. Neither of us refused, and I sang some of his songs whichI happened to know, and some of my own, which I could play for myself.

However, I felt myself recompensed, for when she thanked me she asked if Ihad ever been present at any of the Pope's receptions.

I told her that I had not had the opportunity since I had been here.

"The Pope has a reception to-morrow morning," said she. "Would you care togo? If so, I should be delighted to take you."

"Oh," I said, "that is the thing of all others I should like to do!"

"Then," said she, "I will call for you and take you in my carriage."

This function requires a black dress, black veil, and a general funerealappearance and gloveless hands. Happily she did not forget, but came inher coupé at the appointed time to fetch me, and we drove to the Vatican.

The ambassadress was received at the entrance with bows and smiles ofrecognition by the numerous camerieri and other splendidly dressedpersons, and we were led through endless beautiful rooms before arrivingat the gallery where we were to wait. It was not long before his Holiness(Pius IX.) appeared, followed by his suite of monsignors and prelates. Inever was so impressed in my life as when I saw him. He wore a white-clothsoutane and white-embroidered calotte and red slippers, and looked sokind and full of benevolence that he seemed goodness personified. I kneltdown almost with pleasure on the cold floor when he addressed me, and Ikissed the emerald ring which he wore on his third finger as if I had beena born Catholic and had done such things all my life.

He asked me in English from which country I came, and when I answered,
"America, your Holiness," he said, "What part of America?" I replied,
"From Boston, Holy Father."

"It is a gallant town," the Pope remarked; "I have been there myself."

Having finished speaking with the men (all the ladies stood together onone side of the room and the men on the other), the Pope went to the endof the gallery. We all noticed that he seemed much agitated, and wonderedwhy, and what could have happened to ruffle his benign face. It soonbecame known that there was an Englishman present who refused to kneel,although ordered to do so by the irate chamberlain, and who stood stolidlywith arms folded, looking down with a sneer upon his better-behavedcompanions.

His Holiness made a rather lengthy discourse, and did not conceal hisdispleasure, alluding very pointedly to the unpardonable attitude of thestranger.

On leaving the gallery he turned around a last time, made the sign of thecross, giving us his blessing, and left us very much impressed. I lookedabout for my companion, but could not see her anywhere. Had she forgottenme and left me there to my fate? It would not be unlike her to do so.

I saw myself, in my mind's eye, being led out of the Vatican by thestriped yellow and black legs and halberded guards, and obliged to find myway home alone; but on peering about in all the corners I caught sight ofher seated on a bench fervently saying her prayers, evidently under theimpression that she was in church during mass. As we were about to enterthe coupé she hesitated before giving any orders to the servant, possiblynot remembering where I had lived. But the footman, being accustomed toher vagaries, did not wait, and as he knew where to deposit me, I waslanded safely at the Palazzo Altieri.

February 15th.

The Storys gave "The Merchant of Venice" the other evening. They had putup in one of the salons a very pretty little stage; the fashionable worldwas au complet, and, after having made our bows to Mrs. Story, we tookour places in the theater. Mr. Story was Shylock, and acted extremelywell. Edith was very good as Portia. Waldo and Julian both took part. Mr.and Mrs. Prank Lascelles, of the English Embassy, both dressed in blackvelvet, played the married couple to the life, but did not look at allItalian. The whole performance was really wonderfully well done and mostsuccessful; the enthusiasm was sincere and warmed the cold hands by thefrequent clapping. We were so glad to be enthusiastic!

Mr. Story gave me his book called Roba di Roma, which I will tell youdoes not mean Italian robes—you might think so; it means things aboutRome. I will also tell you, in case that your Italian does not go so far,that when I say that the Storys live in the third piano. I do not meanan upright or a grand—piano is the Italian for story.

Madame Minghetti—the wife of the famous statesman—receives every Sundaytwilight. Rome flocks there to hear music and to admire the artisticmanner in which the rooms are arranged; flirtations are rife in the twilitcorners, in which the salon abounds. As Madame Minghetti is very musicaland appreciative, all the people one meets there pretend to be musical andappreciative, and do not talk or flirt during the music; so when I sing"Medjé" in the growing crepuscule I feel in perfect sympathy with myaudience. Tosti and I alternate at the piano when there is nothing better.If no one else enjoys us, we enjoy each other.

I have always wanted very much to see the famous Garibaldi, and knowing hewas in Rome I was determined to get a glimpse of him. But how could it bedone? I had been told that he was almost unapproachable, and that hedisliked strangers above all.

However, where there is a will there seems to come a way; at any rate,there did come one, and this is how it came:

At dinner at the French Embassy J sat next to Prince Odescalchi, and toldhim of my desire to see Garibaldi. He said: "Perhaps I can manage it foryou. I have a friend who knows a friend of Garibaldi, and it might bearranged through him."

"Then," I said, "your friend who is a friend of Garibaldi's will let youknow, and as you are a friend of my friend you will let her know,and she will let me know."

"It sounds very complicated," he answered, laughing, "and is perhapsimpossible; but we will do our best."

No more than two days after this dinner there came a message from thePrince to say that, if Mrs. Haseltine and I would drive out to Garibaldi'svilla, the friend and the friend of the friend would be there to meet usand present us. This we did, and found the two gentlemen awaiting us atthe gate. I felt my heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeingthe great hero.

Garibaldi was sitting in his garden, in a big, easy, wicker chair, andlooked rather grumpy, I thought (probably he was annoyed at beingdisturbed). But he apparently made up his mind to accept the inevitable,and, rising, came toward us, and on our being presented stretched out awelcoming hand.

He had on a rather soiled cape, and a foulard, the worse for wear,around his neck, where the historical red shirt was visible. His head,with its long hair, was covered with a velvet calotte. He lookedmore like an invalid basking in the sun with a shawl over his legs than hedid like the hero of my imagination, and the only time he did look at allmilitary was when he turned sharply to his parrot, who kept up anincessant chattering, and said, in a voice full of command, "Taci!" whichthe parrot did not in the least seem to mind (I hope Garibaldi's soldiersobeyed him better).

Garibaldi apologized for the parrot's bad manners by saying, "He is veryunruly, but he talks well"; and added, with a rusty smile, "Better thanhis master."

"I don't agree with you," I said. "I can understand you, whereas I can'teven tell what language he is speaking."

"He comes from Brazil, and was given to me by a lady."

"Does he only speak Brazilian?" I asked.

"Oh no, he can speak a little Italian; he can say 'Io t'amo' and 'Caromio'."

"That shows how well the lady educated him. Will he not say 'Io t'amo' forme? I should so love to hear him."

But, in spite of tender pleadings, the parrot refused to do anything butscream in his native tongue.

Garibaldi talked Italian in a soft voice with his friend and French to us.He asked a few questions as to our nationality, and made some othercommonplace remarks. When I told him I was an American he seemed to unbenda little, and said, "I like the Americans; they are an honorable, just,and intelligent people."

He must have read admiration in my eyes, for he "laid himself out" (so hisfriend said) to be amiable. Amiability toward strangers was evidently nothis customary attitude.

He went so far as to give me his photograph, and wrote "Miss Moulton" onit with a hand far from clean; but it was the hand of a brave man, and Iliked it all the better for being dirty. It seemed somehow to belong to ahero. I think that I would have been disappointed if he had had cleanhands and well-trimmed finger-nails. On our taking leave of him heconjured up a wan smile and said, very pleasantly, giving us his ink-stained hand, "A rivederci."

[Illustration: GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI]

I wondered if he really meant that he wanted to see us again; I doubt it,and did not take his remark seriously. On the contrary, I had the feelingthat he was more than indifferent to the pleasure our visit had given him.

When we were driving back to Rome the horses took fright and began runningaway. They careered like wildfire through the gates of the Porta delPopolo, and bumped into a cart drawn by oxen and overloaded with wine-casks. Fortunately one of the horses fell down, and we came to astandstill. The coachman got down from the box and discovered that one ofthe wheels was twisted, the pole broken, and other damage done. We wereobliged to leave the carriage and walk down the Corso to find a cab.

Just as we were getting into one we saw on the opposite side of the streeta man who, while he was cleaning the windows in the third story of ahouse, lost his balance and fell into the street.

We dreaded to know what had happened, and avoided the crowd which quicklycollected, thus shutting out whatever had happened from our view. Wehurried home, trembling from our different emotions.

The next morning I awoke from my sleep, having had a most vivid dream. Ithought I was in a shop, and the man serving me said, "If you take anynumbers in the next lottery, take numbers 2, 18, and 9." This wasextraordinary, and I immediately told the family about it: 2, 18, 9 (threenumbers meant a terno, in other words, a fortune). Mr. H—— said,"Let us look out these numbers in the Libro di Sogni (the Book ofDreams)," and sent out to buy the book. Imagine our feelings! Number 2meant caduta d'una finestra (fall from a window); number 18 meant mortesubito (sudden death), and number 9 meant ospedale (hospital).

Just what had happened; the man had fallen from the window and had beencarried dead to the hospital!

Perhaps you don't know what a tremendous part the lottery plays in Italy;it is to an Italian what sausages and beer are to a German. An Italianwill spend his last soldo to buy a ticket. He simply cannot livewithout it. The numbers are drawn every Saturday morning at twelveo'clock, and are instantly exposed in all the tobacco-shops in the town.

An hour after, whether lucky or unlucky, the Italian buys a new ticket forthe following week, and lives on hope and dreams until the next Saturday;and when any event happens or any dream comes to him he searches in thedream-book for a number corresponding to them, and he is off likelightning to buy a ticket. I was told that the Marquis Rudini, on hearingthat his mother had met her death in a railroad accident, sought in thedream-book for the number attached to "railroad accident," and bought aticket before going to get her remains.

A winning terno brings its lucky owner I don't know exactly how much—but I know it is something enormous.

Well, this would be a terno worth having. My dream, coming as it didstraight from the blue, must be infallibility itself, and we feltperfectly sure that the three magical numbers would bring a fortune forevery one of us, and we all sent out and bought tickets with all the moneywe could spare.

This was on Thursday, and we should have to wait two whole days before webecame the roaring millionaires we certainly were going to be, and westrutted about thinking what presents we would make, what jewels we wouldbuy; in fact, how we would use our fortunes! We sat up late at nightdiscussing the wisest and best way to invest our money, and I could notsleep for fear of a contre-coup in the shape of another dream. Forinstance, if I should dream of a cat miauling on a roof, it would meandisappointment. It would never do to give fate a chance like that!

Imagine with what feverish excitement we awoke on that Saturday, and howwe watched the numbers, gazing from the carriage-windows, at the tobacco-shop! Well, not one of those numbers came out! We drove home in silence,with our feathers all drooping. However, we had had the sensation of beingmillionaires for those two days (ecstatic but short!), and felt that wehad been defrauded by an unjust and cruel fate.

Unsympathetic Mr. Marshal said, mockingly: "How could you expect anythingelse, when you go on excursions with the Marquis Maurriti [that was thename of Garibaldi's friend]? You might have known that you would come togrief."

"Unfeeling man! Why should we come to grief?" we cried with impatience.

"Because, did you not know that he has the mal'occhio [the evil eye]? Ithought every one knew it," said he, making signs with his fingers tocounteract the effect of the devil and all his works. We said indignantly,"If every one knows it, why were we not told?" Our tormentor continued;"There is no doubt about it, and nothing can better prove that people areafraid of him than that when, the other evening, he gave a soirée andinvited all Rome, only half a dozen people out of some five hundredventured to go. The mountains of sandwiches, the cart-loads of cakes, theseas of lemonade, set forth on the supper-table, were attacked only by thecourageous few."

"How dreadful to have such a thing said about you! Who can prove that heor any one else has got the evil eye?"

"Sometimes there is no foundation for the report; perhaps some one, out ofspite or jealousy, spreads the rumor, and there you are."

"Does it not need more than a rumor?" I asked.

"Not much; but we must not talk about him, or something dreadful willhappen to us."

"Do you also believe in such rank nonsense?" I asked.

"Of course I do!" Mr. Marshal replied. "You can see for yourself. If youhad not gone with him your horses would not have run away, and you wouldsurely have got your million."

"Well, we have escaped death and destruction and the million; perhaps weought to be thankful. But in his case I would go and shut myself up in amonastery and have done with it."

"No monastery would take him. No brotherhood would brother him."

"You can't make me believe in the evil eye. Neither shall I ever believein dreams again."

You will hardly believe how many acquaintances I have made here. I think Iknow all Rome, from the Quirinal and the Vatican down. The Haseltines knownearly every one, and whom they don't know I do.

We were invited to see the Colosseum and the Forum illuminations, and wereasked to go to the Villino, which stands in the gardens of the Palace ofthe Caesars, just over the Forum.

That there would be a very select company we had been told; but we did notexpect to see King Victor Emanuel, Prince Umberto, and PrincessMargherita, who, with their numerous suites and many invited guests, quitefilled the small rooms of the Villino. I was presented to them all.

I found the Princess perfectly bewitching and charming beyond words; thePrince was very amiable, and the King royally indifferent and visiblybored. That sums up my impressions.

At the risk of committing lèse majesté, I must say that the King ismore than plain. He has the most enormous mustaches, wide-open eyes, and avery gruff, military voice, speaking little, but staring much. The Prince,whom I had seen in Paris during the Exposition, talked mostly about Parisand of his admiration of the Emperor and Empress. The Princess wasfascinating, and captivated me on the spot by her affability and hernatural and sweet manner.

The Colosseum looked rather theatrical in the glare of the red and greenBengal lights, and I think it lost a great deal of its dignity andgrandeur by this cheap method of illumination.

I met there a Spanish gentleman whom I used to know in Paris years ago. Hewas at that time the Marquis de Lema, a middle-aged beau, who was alwaysready to fill any gap in society where a noble marquis was needed.

He began life, strange to say, as a journalist, and as such made himselfso useful to the ex-King of Naples that the King, to reward him, hired thefamous Farnesina Palace for ninety-nine years. Here the former Marquis,who is now Duke di Ripalda, lives very much aggrandized as a descendant ofthe Cid, glorying in his ancestorship.

He was very glad to see me again, he said, and to prove it came often todine with us.

One day he asked Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself to take tea withhim in the romantic garden of the Farnesina. Mrs. Lawrence said it waslike a dream, walking under the orange-trees and looking down on the oldTiber, which makes a sudden turn at the bottom of the broad terrace.

Her dream came suddenly to an end when she saw the stale cakes and theweak and watery tea and oily chocolate which, out of politeness, we feltobliged to swallow; and the nightmare set in when she saw his apartment onthe first floor, furnished by himself with his own individual taste, whichwas simply awful. But who cares for the mother-of-pearl inlaid furniturecovered with hideous modern blue brocade and the multicolored carpets inwhich his coat of arms were woven, when one can look at his Sodomas andCorreggios and Raphaels? His coat of arms, which is a sword with "Si, si,no, no," is displayed everywhere throughout the palace.

The "cid-evant" Marquis told us that the Cid had given the sword toone of his ancestors, and remarked that it signified that his forefathershad very decided characters, and that it was either yes or no with them. Ithought it might work the other way; it might just as well mean that theancestors did not know their own minds, and that first it was yes andthen it was no with them. The Duke, in a truly grandiose manner, lays norestriction on the public, but throws his whole palace open every firstand fifteenth of the month, and allows people to roam at their pleasurethrough all the rooms; they can even sit on the blue brocade furniture ifthey like, and there is no officious guide ordering people about withtheir, "This way, Madame," or "Don't sit down," "Don't walk on thecarpet," or "Don't spit on the floor."

On the ground floor are the celebrated frescoes of "Psyche," painted byRaphael, and in the large gallery there is a little design on the walls towhich the Duke called our attention, saying it was Michelangelo'svisiting-card, and told us that Michelangelo came one day, and, findingRaphael absent, took up his palette and painted this little picture, whichstill remains on the walls, framed and with a glass over it.

Mrs. Lawrence told us of a new acquaintance she had made, a BaronMontenaro, who said he was the last (the very last) of the Rienzis, adescendant of Cola di. The last tribune left! "Is it not romantic?" criedMrs. Lawrence, and was all eyes and ears. But prosaic Duke di Ripaldasaid, "How can he say he is the last of the Rienzis, when he has a marriedbrother who has prospects of a small tribune of his own?"

ROME, April, 1875.

Mrs. Polk (widow of the former President Polk) and her two daughters arevery much liked here. I call Miss Polk la maîtresse demoiselle, becauseshe rules every one with a high and masterful hand.

They had some wonderful tableaux recently at their palace (Salviati),which were most beautiful and artistically arranged by different artists.They had turned a long gallery which had once served as a ballroom intothe theater. I was asked to sing in a tableau representing a Bohemianhall, where, as a background, Bohemian peasants in brilliant costumes satand stood about. I was also dressed in a Bohemian dress, and leanedagainst a pillar and held a tambourine in my hand. Tosti played theaccompaniment of "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which was most appropriate tothe occasion.

The Princess Margherita sat in the front row, and a more sympathetic andlovelier face could never have inspired a singer. She insisted upon myrepeating my song, which rather bored the other performers, as they had tostand quiet while the song was going on. Tosti made the accompanimentwonderfully well, considering that I had only played it once for him.

After the tableaux, and when the Princess had retired to a little salonplaced at her disposal, she sent word to ask me to come to her, as shewished to speak with me. I was overjoyed to see her again, as the shortinterview at the Villino could hardly be called an interview. ThePrincess said; "I have heard a great deal about your singing; but I didnot believe any amateur could sing as you do. Your phrasing and expressionare quite perfect!" She finished by asking me to come to the Quirinal tosee her, "and perhaps have a little music"; and added, "The MarquisVillamarina sings beautifully, and you shall hear him." The Princess is solovely, no words can describe her charm and the sweet expression of herface. Her smile is a dream.

I had intended leaving Rome the very day she fixed for my going to her,but of course I postponed my departure and I went, and had a mostdelightful afternoon. It was the first time that I had seen the Quirinaland I was very much interested. One of the numerous laquais who werestanding about in the antechamber when I arrived preceded me into asalon where I found the Marquise Villamarina (first lady-in-waiting of thePrincess). She came toward me, saying that the Princess was lookingforward with pleasure to seeing me, and added that she hoped that I hadthought to bring some music. I followed her through several very spacioussalons until we reached a salon which evidently was the music-room, asthere were two grand pianos and a quantity of music-books placed onshelves. Here I found the Princess waiting for me, and she received mewith much cordiality.

The Marquis Villamarina has a most enchanting voice, liquid and velvety,the kind that one only hears in Italy. Signor Tosti (the composer) wasalready at the piano and accompanied the Marquis in "Ti rapirei, mio ben,"a song he composed and dedicated to him. The Princess sang a very charmingold Italian song. She has a mezzo-soprano voice and sings with great tasteand sweetness. She, the Marquis, and I sang a trio of Gordigiani; then thePrincess asked me to sing the "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which i had sungat the tableaux. I also sang "Beware!" which she had never heard and whichshe was perfectly delighted with, and I promised to send her the music. Itwas a great pleasure to sing in this intimate and sans façon way, withthe most sympathetic and charming of Princesses. Chocolate, tea, andlittle cakes were served, which I supposed was the signal for departure.The Princess, on bidding me good-by, gave me her hand and said, "I hope tosee you soon again."

"Alas!" I replied, "I am leaving Rome to-morrow," and as I stooped down tokiss her hand she drew me to her and said, "I am sorry that you are going,I hoped that you were staying longer," and kissed me on both cheeks.

PARIS, May, 1875.

I have had a lazy month. Mrs. Moulton was delighted to have me back again,and I was glad to rest after all my junketing. Just think, I was almost ayear in Germany!

Nina has had the measles, fortunately lightly; I was garde malade, andstayed with her in her sick-room.

Howard goes to a day-school not far from the Rue de Courcelles everymorning, and comes home at two o'clock and shows with pride the book theteacher gives him to show. They must mean it to be shown, otherwise somuch trouble would not be taken to make such lengthy and marvelousaccounts of his prowess, the numbers running up in the thousands, andnotations all through, such as très bien, verbes sans faute, and dictésparfaits. He can repeat all the departments of France backward andforward, and goes through the verbs, regular and irregular, like amachine. The French love these irregular verbs, so irregular sometimesthat they border on frivolity. He has learned some rather inane patrioticpoetry, which he recites with a childish dramatic swagger.

This is about all they teach in this school; but the rapports areworth the money: they deceive the parents, making them believe their geeseare swans of the first water.

PARIS, May.

We have had real pleasure in hearing a young pianiste from Venezuelacalled Teresa Careño. She is a wunderkind. Her mother says she is nineyears old; she looks twelve, but may be sixteen. No one can ever tell howold a wunderkind really is. Her playing is marvelous, her technicperfect. She knows about two hundred pieces by heart, is extremely prettyand attractive, and performs whenever she is asked. I think she has agreat career before her, and she has already got the toss-back of herblack hair in the most approved pianist manner. "Elle ne manque rien," thegreat Saint-Saëns said. One can't imagine that she could play better thanshe does; but she thinks that she is by no means perfect.

Though I said that I had led a dolce-far-niente existence, and had beenlazy, I have been dreadfully busy and have been on the go from morningtill night: I might call it a dolce-far-molto existence. I spend hours,which ought to be better spent, in shops. I simply revel in them.

You have heard of the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt. Well, she is notonly an actress, but she is a sculptress, and is a very good one. She isnow playing at the Vaudeville. But I must begin at the beginning, thewhole thing was so amusing,

You remember Mrs. Bradley? You used to scold me for calling her "theOmelette." They are living now in Paris; her hair and complexion are justas yellow as they used to be; but her dresses are yellower. Beaumont saidthat she was "Une étude en jaune."

The other evening she had a box at the theater, and asked me to go to hearSarah Bernhardt in "Le fils Giboyer." Her son, the immaculate Bostonian,went with us. He is a duplicate of his mother's yellowness. I took Nina,who looked extremely pretty: she was beaming with excitement; her cheekswere flushed, and her curly, golden hair made a halo about her delicatefeatures. Every one stared at her when we entered the box. During thesecond act I let her take my place in front, and, observe how virtue isrewarded! In the following entr'acte the ouvreuse came in suddenlywithout knocking (ouvreuses never knock! that is one of their manyprivileges) and begged to parler à Monsieur. Imagine the chaste George'sfeelings when he was told that the famous Sarah wished to speak with him,and, moreover, desired him to come behind the scenes to her dressing-room.What a situation! His red hair blushed to the very roots, and his yellowface became n sunset. However, one is or one is not a man. He provedhimself to be one who could face danger when the time came.

Trembling at the thought of Boston, the virtuous, hearing of it, he saw inhis mind's eye the height the Puritan brows of his most distinguishedfamily would reach when the news would be spread over the town, and acertain biblical scene passed before his mental vision.

He gave his lemon-colored mustache a final fascinating twist, and, hummingto himself "Hail, the conquering hero comes!" he buckled on his sword andwent—all his colors flying.

We waited breathlessly for his return, which was much sooner than weexpected, and the smile he wore was not that of a conquering hero; it wasanother kind of a smile. Well, what do you think Madame Sarah wanted?Merely to know if the child in the box was his! His! His unmarried hairstood on end; he was so taken aback that he only had breath to mutter, "Iam not married, Madame."

Then in her most dramatic tones she demanded, "Who is the child, then?"

He told her.

"Where does this Madame Moulton live?" she asked.

He told her that also. Then, with a dismissing wave of the hand, Sarahbade him farewell. It was all over. He had survived! Boston would neverknow.

The next day I received a note from Sarah Bernhardt, asking me if I wouldallow her to make a bust of la charmante petite fille. I answered that Ishould be delighted. Then came another note telling me at what timel'enfant should come for the first sitting.

I took Nina to the studio, which was beyond the Boulevard de Courcelles ina courtyard. It was enchanting to watch the artist at work. She wasdressed like a man: she wore white trousers and jacket, and a whitefoulard tied artistically about her head. She had short and frizzlyhair, and she showed us how she did it, gathering the four corners as ifit were a handkerchief, with the ends sticking up on the top of her head.She smoked cigarettes all the time she was working.

She posed Nina in the attitude she thought interesting, with head down andeyes up—a rather tiring position. And to keep l'enfant quiet shedevised all sorts of things. Sometimes she would rehearse her rôles in thevoice they speak of as golden; because it coins gold for her, I suppose.The rehearsing of her rôles was not so amusing, as there were norépliques; but what kept Nina most quiet was when Sarah told her of thealbum she was making for her. Every artist she knew was working at someoffering, and when it would be finished Nina was to have it. She wouldexpatiate for hours on the smallest details. Meissonier, for instance, waspainting a water-color, a scene of the war: a German regiment attacking aFrench inn, which was being defended by French soldiers. Then Gounod waswriting a bit of music dedicated to la charmante modèle, and so forth.Nina would listen with open mouth and glistening eyes, and at everysitting she would say, "Et mon album?" expecting each time to see itforthcoming. But it never came forth. It only existed in MadameBernhardt's fertile brain. It had no other object than to keep the modelstill. It seemed cruel to deceive the child. Even to the last, when Ninahad said for the last time, "And shall I have my album to-day?" Sarahanswered that it was not quite ready, as the binding was notsatisfactory, and other tales, which, if not true, had the desired effect,and she finished the bust. It was not a very good likeness, but a verypretty artistic effort, and was sent to the next Exposition, receiving"honorable mention," perhaps more honorable than we mentioned her at home.She gave me a duplicate of it made of terra-cotta.

Don't expect any more letters, for I shall be very busy before mydeparture for America, which is next week, and then I shall…. Well,wait!

Good-by.

INDEX

AGASSIZ, Professor, "Father Nature" helped to pay for his new house.
Amateur theatricals.
American songs at the French court.
American soul-probes, intimate questions answered by the Emperor,
the Empress and Prosper Mérimée.
Americans seeking a hotel.
Anti-slavery anecdotes;
Joshua Green's forgetfulness;
Phillips Brooks's story of a convert's confession.
Auber, the composer, introduced by the Duke de Persigny;
writes a cadenza for Alabieff's "Rossignol";
at Meyerbeer's funeral;
his life in Paris;
"Le Rêve d'Amour" at eighty-three;
describes the slaughter of Generals Thomas and Lecomte;
his friendship with Massenet;
entertains Madame at breakfast during the siege;
dies on the ramparts.

BALL costumes.
Ball of the Plebiscite.
Bancroft, George, historian, presents a souvenir of an enjoyable evening.
Bernhardt, Sara, makes a bust of Madame's daughter Nina.
"Beware!", Longfellow's words set to music by Charles Moulton,
wins praise.
Birthday joy for Count Pourtales.
Blind Tom imitates Auber.
Brignoli, in his prime.
Brooks, Phillips, anecdote by.
Brunswick's wicked duke and his famous crime;
his silken wig.

CAREÑO, TERESA, a wunderkind at nine;
plays in Paris.
Carl XIV. of Sweden at the Exposition.
Castellane, Countess, exhibits her stable at a fancy ball.
Castiglione, Countess, as "Salammbô";
as "La Vérité".
Changarnier, General, in the lancers.
Charades and amateur theatricals.
Charity, singing for.
Cinderella coach, Mrs. Moulton's.
Compiègne and its festivities;
its grand officials and its guests;
ceremonies at the table;
dress etiquette.
Costumes for Compiègne.
Croquet at night with lamps;
imperial players;
beaten with a despised ivory mallet.
Cuba visited;
an old Harvard friend lands the party in Havana;
high officials escort Madame all over the island;
assisted by old acquaintances;
a curious Cuban waltz;
a hot time in Morro Castle;
international courtesies on the war-ships;
fame had preceded Madame;
discovers and visits Jules Alphonso;
news of Napoleon's death;
a German serenade;
"Pinafore" for the sailors;
a triumphal departure.
Curls from the "Magasin du Bon Dieu" cause a sensation.

D'AOUST'S, Marquis, operetta.
De Bassano, duch*ess, grande maîtresse.
Delle Sedie, music-teacher, and his theories.
Delsarte and his emotion diagrams;
his "tabac,";
the Emperor's joke;
Madame visits him during the siege;
his evening dress.
De Morny, Duke (Queen Hortense's son), and his protégé;
as a librettist, with music by Offenbach;
his death.
Doré caricatures nobility.

EMERALDS from the Khedive.
Eugénie, Empress, skates with Madame;
"a beautiful apparition,";
in collision with an American;
at the play in Compiègne;
her flight from the Tuileries after Sedan assisted by Prince Metternich;
takes refuge with Dr. Evans;
widow and exile at Chiselhurst.
Evans, Dr., American dentist, shelters the fleeing Empress after Sedan.
Exposition of 1867.

GALLIFET, Marquis de, tells of his silver plate;
criticizes English idioms.
Garcia, Manuel, teacher of singing, engaged;
first impressions and lessons;
"Bel raggio" the first song.
Garibaldi in retirement;
autographs his portrait.
Gautier, Théophile, dinner companion, tells of his educated cats;
his poetical tribute to Madame.
Germans in Versailles.
Germany and the Rhineland;
visit to the Metternichs' château, Johannisberg;
reminiscences of the war;
famous Johannisberg wine;
a gentlemanly American bronco-buster captures the Westphals;
at Weimar;
calling on a noble farmer;
boar-hunting in Westphalia.
Gold button of the Imperial Hunt, a gift from Napoleon;
worn at a chasse-à-tir;
at a mock battle.
Gounod "hums" deliciously.
Green corn and a clay pipe at Fontainebleau.
Green, Joshua, and his Creator.
Gudin, William, artist, and his collection of cigars and cigarettes.

HATZFELDT, Count, married to Madame's sister Helen;
Bismarck's secretary;
his opinion of Napoleon;
German minister to Madrid.
Hegermann-Lindencrone, Madame Lillie de, prefatory note.

IN London society.
Imperial gifts.
Imperial hunt fashions and cruelty to animals;
the dog's share.

"LA DIVA DU MONDE"—Strakosch tempts Madame to sing in concert;
an immediate success;
story of a floral harp;
a trying moment in oratorio;
news of Mr. Moulton's illness and sudden death.
Lincoln, President, at the Sanitary Fair;
compliments Madame;
news of his assassination.
Lind's, Jenny, American memories;
comparing trills;
duets with.
Liszt plays Auber's music and praises Massenet;
his letter to Madame.
Locket souvenirs.
Longfellow, the poet disapproves of but forgives a joke.
Lowell, James Russell, cousin, a substitute for Longfellow in the
Agassiz school.

MARGHERITA, Princess of Italy, entertains Madame at the Quirinal.
Massenet at Petit Val, the Moultons' country seat.
Maximilian's death in Mexico.
Mechanical piano dance music, a substitute for Waldteufel;
Madame takes a turn.
Melody, tears, and a "speech" in Rochester's "pen".
Mérimée, Prosper, "entrancing";
his long love affair.
Metternich, Prince, Austrian ambassador to France;
describes Rossini's home life;
entertains Madame at Johannisberg;
dedicates a volume, A l'Inspiratice.
Metternich, Princess, leader in society and fashion;
her enormous cigars;
one of her famous dances;
her home at Johannisberg.
Moulton, Charles, engaged to marry;
his family and musical talents;
author of "Beware!";
his illness and sudden death.
Musard, Madame, and her petroleum stock.

NAPOLEON III., Emperor, introduced to Madame on the ice by Prince Murat;
skates with Madame;
invites Madame to sing at the Tuileries;
the domino his favorite disguise;
dances the Virginia reel;
places Madame next to him at dinner;
a distorted joke;
takes command of the army;
his death.
New York mansion of the late fifties.
Nilsson in "Traviata";
her famous appetite.

OFFENBACH, JACQUES, composer, writes the music for a play by the Duke de Morny.Old family origins.

PATTI, reminiscences of.
Petit Val, the Moultons' country seat;
its princely neighbors and guests;
Napoleon builds a bridge for;
the nightingale in the cedar;
in the path of the German army;
Madame views ruin all around;
dining with the invaders;
conquering with song;
rescued by the American Minister Washburn.
Picnic at Grand Trianon.
Pierrefonds, ancient château, excursion to;
restored by Architect Viollet-le-Duc;
second visit to.
Prince Imperial as "Pan";
leaves for the war with the Emperor;
"le baptême du feu".
Prince Oscar's tributes of punch, bracelets, and poetry;
duet with;
visits Delsarte.

RIGAULT, RAOUL, Communard prefect of Paris, insults Madame;
decrees many arrests;
gives orders for the massacre of forty hostages.
Roman days with the Haseltines;
Sculptor Story and his family;
an Italian "Mrs. Malaprop";
audience with the Pope;
visit to Garibaldi;
an accident, a dream, and a lottery ticket;
presented to the royal family;
a typical nobleman;
President Polk's widow entertains;
Madame a guest at the Quirinal;
Tosti as accompanist.
Rossini, Gioachino, his home and his wigs;
highly praises Madame's voice;
severely criticizes Wagner but praises "Tannhäuser;"
approves of Gounod.
Rothschild, Baroness Alphonse, gives a concert with no one to hear it but
herself and Madame.
Rue de Courcelles and the Moulton Hotel during the siege;
Père Moulton's prevision;
farming and dairying in the conservatory;
visited by Courbet, the Communard artist;
Auber tells of the saturnalia;
Mère Moulton leaves for Dinard;
a notable dinner party has peas from Petit Val;
Massenet and Auber at the piano;
Whist under difficulties;
shut in;
despoiled of horse, but the cow is saved;
under fire;
succoring a wounded fugitive;
refuge at Dinard.

SCHOOL-DAYS at Cambridge under Professor Agassiz;
Character sketches of the tutors, the best in Harvard.
Skating on the lake at Suresnes with baby Nina;
meets and teaches Napoleon and Eugénie;
in the Bois.
Strauss, at the Metternich ball, conducts "The Blue Danube" waltz.
Sullivan's "Prodigal Son."

THEATER at Compiègne.
Three famous artists amuse the invalid.
"Three Little Kittens."
Tips a burden at Compiègne;
Père Moulton objects and they are abolished.

VIRGINIA reel with the Emperor;
Madame de Persigny gets a fall.

WAGNER, RICHARD, severe and critical.
Waldteufel, waltz-master, at the piano.
War clouds rising;
a distressing dinner;
war declared;
false news of victories.
War play and a Virginia reel with the Emperor.
War scenes in Paris and its environs;
the Commune proclaimed;
murder of the peacemakers;
shooting of Generals Thomas and Lecomte;
Madame ministers in the hospitals;
two pathetic German patients;
an American victim;
through the mob to Worth's atelier;
bearding the Communard prefect Rigault;
seizure of the Moulton carriage;
fall of the Column Vendôme;
slaughter of the hostages;
MacMahon captures the city.
Washburn, American minister;
"only a post-office,";
in the Assembly;
getting passports.
Worth's atelier during the Commune.

THE END