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 he knows yet what its true meaning is. There is an end to all things, and our concert came to an end at last. Their Majesties, with gracious smiles and repeated thanks, retired, the Milky Way faded from view, and the planets went to bed.

I know I deserved mine, and I appreciated it when I got it.

December 3d.

The chasse a courre is generally fixed for the last day of the serie; but their Majesties, at the suggestion of the thoughtful Vicomte Walsh, ordered it to be changed to this afternoon, in order that the operetta should arrive at a riper stage of perfection. Would it ever be near enough? 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 bordering on brain-fever, in a state of expectancy and impatience. Neither he nor d'Espeuilles knew their songs, and the chorus needed much drilling. The Princess Metternich put her salon at the Marquis's disposal, and he spent half his time teaching some of his pupils.

The days of the chasse a courre the gentlemen appear in red coats and the ladies in green-cloth dresses. Those that had le bouton put it in their buttonhole. You may be sure I wore mine!

All the carriages, the horses, and grooms were before the terrace at two o'clock, and after the usual delay we drove off to the forest. Their Majesties and the Prince Imperial were on horseback. The Duchess de Sesto invited me to drive with her, and in the same char-a-banc with us were Baronne de la Poeze, Comtesse Pourtales, and four or five others. The Duchess looked very dainty, wrapped in her chinchilla furs. I had had so little time to learn the talking part of my role that I took it with me in the 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 of such minor details as dirt Fortunately it did not rain, and the sun made a few spasmodic efforts to come out, but it was far from being the ideal day of last year.

This chasse varies but little, and I described my first acquaintance with it in a letter last year, so I will spare you the repetition of details. 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 etoile, we saw a beautiful stag bound past us, full of life and strength, with enormous horns (they said it was a dix cors). Every one in the carriage stood up in their excitement to look after it. How I wished he would escape and live his free and happy life in the forest. I hate this chasse; I hate to write about it; I hate to be present at it. It is all so pitiful and painful to me! How can any one find pleasure in such cruel sport?

To kill a living creature, to take the life of an animal that has done you no harm, seems horrible to me. But I will say no more on this subject. It always 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 carrefour in time to see the death of one stag. The others saw it, but I was occupied with my manuscript.

There were two stags taken, two beautiful creatures that ought to have lived.

It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerful fire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and I was 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 of Diana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescent on her lovely hair.

The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for there were some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was the Count de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but I was able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to the Marquis's incessant explanations.

There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the curee. It is a pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to show a good deal of talent in their playing le piano mechanique, and they can play almost in time.

The curee was at ten o'clock. The long gallery was soon alive with an eager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyard was filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiegne; the piqueurs waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the gardes 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 of entrails to be devoured.

Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboring chateaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off to the 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 my salon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d'Aoust. He begged my pardon for disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something he considered of great importance.

He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he had not 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 the rehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him, my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that all would go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession of nightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, having forgotten both words and music.

He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since I don't know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he had ordered; 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 dejeuner sandwiched between the tenor and the basso. We rehearsed our dialogues, although we pretended to discuss other matters.

The Empress went directly to the Marquis after dejeuner and said, "We are looking forward to your operetta to-night with real pleasure, and we 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 were delighted to find there the grand piano from the salle de musique. The curtain 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 a vase placed just before the footlights, so that it would not interfere with our movements, but would show us where not to fall off.

The Marquis was, of course, at the piano, and Prince Metternich, as prompter, squeezed into a prompter's box, looking wretchedly uncomfortable. We commenced the rehearsal, which, on the whole, went off better than we expected.

The basso is the first to appear. He sings a melancholy song, in which he makes known his love for the humble village maiden. His voice gets more dismal and lower as he becomes despondent, and higher and more buoyant as his hopes rise. At the end, when he sings "Elle sera a 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 sentimental ditty telling of my love for the friend of the lord. The music of this is mediocre beyond words. The Marquis tries to show, by a few high soprano notes, how high my wildest flights of aspirations fly before I could ever reach the subject of my love. "Mes tourments" and "le doux plaisir d'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 love with her husband, berates me in a dramatic duet. The friend and adviser now appears, and we get through an incomprehensible trio. He cannot convince her (the lady) of the innocence of her husband. She insists upon thinking him a traitor, leaves us in a fury, and we have the floor to ourselves when we sing the famous duet on account of which the Marquis had qualms this morning. In it there is a minor phrase which is quite intricate, and I saw that unless I came to d'E——'s rescue he could never manage it.

The lord and the lady reappear, while the friend and I retire in the background and lean up against the village steeple and whisper. The lady is violent and the lord is indifferent. The music sounds like an everlasting grumble, because her voice is contralto and his is bass. The village maiden is called to the front, and denies everything she has been accused of. The husband makes amends in a phrase miles too high for his voice. The friend takes all the blame on his black-velvet shoulders, and says he has loved the maiden all along. The maiden is overcome with emotion and faints for joy.

The final quartette is a sad affair, musically speaking, constructed on the Marquis's own ideas of thoroughbass. All the singers start on the same plane, the soprano soars heavenward, the contralto and the bass grovel in their deepest notes, while the tenor, who ought to fill up the gap, stands counting 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 the lower regions, the soprano floating in heaven, the tenor groping about on earth 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 on the stage (in the text it says Rosette tombe evanouie). He said nothing was easier. I had only to put my arms out to break the fall and—fall. He thought that with a little practice between the afternoon and the evening I should be able to do it.

I could see myself covered with bruises tumbling about over sofas and chairs, and I could see the bewilderment of any one coming into my room while I was practising this part of my role.

I said, "I absolutely refuse to risk my neck." He thought it was very selfish of me. One would have thought that the whole success of the operetta depended on my fainting. He said he could show me how to fall without hurting myself, and in trying to do so he tripped over the vase and bumped his head against the garden bench. Fortunately he did not damage himself, but the argument ended then and there.

At half-past four my maid came to the theater to tell me that the Empress expected me to tea. I had thought she would, as she had promised the answers to those questions; and so it was. As soon as I appeared (I had had time to change my dress) the Empress called me to her and said:

"Here are the answers to your American soul-probing questions! These are mine (giving me hers) and here are the Emperor's. He was very pleased to write 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, with her lovely smile, "nous vous aimons bien."

I was very glad to have the answers. I copy them for you.

A quelle qualite donnez-vous la preference? A la gratitude.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Tacite.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Chercher la solution de problemes insolubles.

Qui voudriez-vous etre? Mon petit fils.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire detestez-vous le plus? Le Connetable de Bourbon.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? Pour celles dont je profite.

NAPOLEON LOUIS.

A quelle qualite donnez-vous la preference? Au devouement.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Calderon, Byron, Shakespeare.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire le bien.

Qui voudriez-vous etre? Ce que je suis.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire detestez-vous le plus? Lopez.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? Pour celles que la passion excuse.

EUGENIE.

I add the answers of Prosper Merimee:

A quelle qualite donnez-vous la preference? La perseverance.

Quels sont vos auteurs favoris? Pr. Merimee.

Quelles sont vos occupations favorites? Faire des chateaux en Espagne.

Qui voudriez-vous etre? Napoleon III.

Quelles personnes de l'histoire detestez-vous le plus? Mazarin.

Pour quelles fautes avez-vous le plus d'indulgence? La gourmandise.

PROSPER MERIMEE.

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 Laferriere was next to me at dinner. He was as much interested in the operetta as other people seemed to be. I took advantage of his being my neighbor to ask him to manage it so that we could leave the salon before the cercle commenced, as we had to dress, and if any of us were late 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 the table. I suppose he wanted to inspire me with hope and courage.

Monsieur de Laferriere arranged everything for us most amiably. We rushed off 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 still pottering over his raiment. The artist he had ordered from Paris was already there, brush in hand, ready to paint us. The result was very satisfactory. When we looked at ourselves in the glass we wondered why one should not be beautiful every day with so simple an art.

We were rather taken back when Monsieur d'Espeuilles appeared in a wig and a false mustache; but he hastened to say there was nothing like being disguised to put one at one's ease. The gentlemen of the chorus, not willing to go to any extra expense, had culottes courtes and white stockings; the ladies had tried to be more in harmony, but they thought that with rakes, spades, and basket they had quite enough couleur locale.

The chamberlain came to ask whether their Majesties should come now. Prince Metternich answered that we were waiting for them, A tedious delay occurred before the audience had settled into their places in accordance with their rank, to the great annoyance of Prince Metternich, shut up in the small prompter's box, and the Marquis d'Aoust, fidgeting at the piano, and driving us almost to distraction by his repeated questions and exhortations: "Do you think you know your part? Don't forget to"—etc.

At last! at last! No retreating now, Coute que coute! we must take in the plank and embark on our shaky craft.

The Marquis attacked the overture by playing some vigorous arpeggios and pompous chords. The curtains were drawn aside and the lord of the manor entered. After his monologue, which he did very well, he hesitated a moment. This agitated the Marquis to such a degree that he stood up and waved his hand as a signal to him to commence his song, and gave him the note on the piano. Monsieur de V—— started in all right and sang his song with due sentiment, and very well. I even think as far back as the sixth row of seats they were conscious that he was singing. His acting and gestures were faultless. All Frenchmen can act.

I thought, when I came in, the public was chilly, and I felt cold shivers running down my back. My courage was oozing out of me, and when the lord of 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," I thought I should die of fright and collapse on the spot. However, I pulled myself together and began my silly little song.

The moment I began to sing I felt at ease, and I flatter myself I gave a certain glaze to the emptiness of the music. Madame Conneau sang her dramatic aria beautifully, and created quite a furore. I only wish the music had been more worthy of her. The love duet between the friend and myself was, much to my surprise, a great success. It was encored, and we sang it again.

When we came to the minor passage (the stumbling-block) the Marquis, who was perspiring at every pore in his dread that I should not hit the right note, pounded it on the piano loud enough to be heard all over the theater. I gave him a withering look, which he pretended not to see. Perhaps he did not, for his attention, like mine, was startled by seeing the false mustache of Monsieur d'Espeuilles ungluing and threatening to drop into his mouth. The Marquis began wagging his head and making frantic signs. Monsieur d'Espeuilles was horribly confused, and I feared for the success of our da capo; but he patted the now limp offender back on his lip, and we continued the duet. During the applause the Marquis took the occasion to wipe the perspiration from his bald head.

In spite of our qualms the final quartette was not so bad after all. When it was time for me to come down from my upward flight in order to help the tenor, the Marquis again waved his right hand in the air to attract my attention, while he thundered a tremolo with his left, to keep the accompaniment going until he was sure that everything was right. The chorus came on in due order, and flourished their rakes and spades as though they were waving flags, in participation of the joy and gladness of the reconciliation. There was one moment of genuine hilarity, when the little fox-terrier belonging to the Empress's niece rushed on to the stage to join his mistress, who, with great sang-froid, picked him up and went on singing, to the immense amusement of the audience.

It was suffocatingly hot in the little theater, and we were glad to think that we had arrived at the end of our perilous journey. The red on our cheeks was getting paler; the powder was becoming paste; the black on the eyebrowless actors began to run down their cheeks; Monsieur d'Espeuilles's wig and mustache were all on one side.

All these details mattered little, now that the end had come, and the performance had concluded with great eclat.

The happy Marquis (though I think he aged ten years that hour at the piano) 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 persistent and, 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 all separately for the pleasure they had had and the trouble we had given ourselves. The Emperor said to me, "Vous vous etes surpassee ce soir." I courtesied and asked him what he thought of the music.

He hesitated before answering. "I don't know much about music; but it seems to me, as Rossini said of the music of Wagner: 'Il y a de jolis moments, mais de mauvais quarts d'heures!' All the same, it was very pretty."

Every one praised the Marquis to the skies, and he was really in the seventh heaven of delight.

I am only afraid his head will be turned, and that he will write another chef-d'oeuvre.

I was glad when their Majesties bade us good night, for I was completely exhausted.

PARIS, December 5th.

It seems nice, all the same, to be at home again. We arrived in Paris at six 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. Was it only the day before yesterday? It seems months ago. At dejeuner the Princess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and the Empress's brother-in-law, Duke d'Albe, gave me his avant-le-deluge arm, and put me on the left of his Majesty.

I thought the Emperor looked tired and ill, and I noticed he frequently put his hand on his back, as if he was in pain. The Princess Metternich engrossed the Emperor's attention. She is so witty and lively that every one must listen when she talks. All the same, the Emperor talked with me a good deal, and thanked me for having done so much to amuse them. Never would they forget the pleasure they had had.

When we went up to our rooms to put on our cloaks there was no pretentious majordomo demanding his fee, and our particular valet looked sad, and did not meet my eye when I tried to catch his to give a smile of adieu, and persistently 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 had made some little compensation for all the delightful days spent there.

I asked my maid how the servants felt about this change. She said that in their salle a manger almost all the maids and valets belonging to the guests gave pourboires.

After we had made our adieux, and taken our seats in the different carriages, their Majesties came out on the balcony to see us depart. They waved their hands in farewell as we drove off.

The journey back to Paris was a silent one. Every one was occupied with his own thoughts. Prince Metternich sat in a corner talking with the impervious diplomat; I wondered if he were relating the salad's complicated relationships. We all bade one another good-by, adding, with assumed enthusiasm, that we hoped to meet soon again, when perhaps we were rejoicing 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 at four o'clock. On arriving we found the Metternichs, Edouard Delesert, Duperre, and Count Dehm, the Austrian Secretary. Their Majesties and the Prince Imperial joined us when we were all assembled. We then mounted the two char-a-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 rest of us were in the second—about fourteen people in all. We drove through the lovely forest of Marly, the long, tiresome avenues of Versailles, and through many roads known probably only to the postilions, and perhaps used only on rare occasions such as this royal excursion, for they were in such a bad condition, ruts and stones everywhere, that our heads and shoulders were bumping continually against our neighbors'. Finally we reached Petit Trianon, where we left the carriages and servants, who were ordered to meet us at Grand Trianon later, bringing our extra wraps with them. The air was deliciously balmy and warm, and was filled with the perfume of lilacs and acacias.

We wandered through the park, admiring the skill of the artist who had laid it out so cleverly, just like Petit Val. This is not surprising, as it was the same person who planned them both. All the surroundings recall the charming life which Marie Antoinette must have lived in the midst of this pastoral simplicity.

I wondered if the same thought passed through the Empress's mind which passed through mine. Could history ever repeat this unfortunate queen's horrible fate? We continued our walk to Grand Trianon, and found the table spread for our dinner under the wide charmille, near the lake. The Princess Metternich sat on the right of the Emperor, and I on his left.

The Emperor was in excellent spirits, and bandied repartees with Monsieur Delesert, who surpassed himself in wit, and told many and sometimes rather risky stories, which made every one laugh. The Prince Imperial could hardly wait till the end of the dinner, he was so impatient to get to the rowboat which was ready waiting for him on the lake. The Empress was quite nervous, and stood on the edge of the lake all the time he was on the water, calling to him, "Prends garde, Louis!" "Ne te penches pas, Louis!" and many other such counsels like any other anxious mother, and she never took her eyes from the little boat which was zigzagging about under the hands of the youthful prince.

It was after nine o'clock when we started to return to St. Cloud by another route. The piqueur, finding the gate locked through which we had to pass, knocked on the door of the lodge-keeper, who, awakened from his slumbers, appeared in a deshabille more than hasty, intending to administer a savon (scolding) to such tardy comers. But on hearing from the piqueur that the monarch of all he surveyed was waiting in the carriage, 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, he thought it his duty to show his patriotism, so he stood on the steps of his lodge and, as we passed through the gate, he chanted a hoarse and sleepy! "Vive l'Empereur!" and waved his smoking candle.

The Emperor was convulsed with laughter. I, who sat behind him, could see his shoulders shaking.

The ball of the plebiscite was the most splendid thing I ever saw. The architects and decorators had outdone themselves. The gardens of the Tuileries beyond the fountain had been hedged in by orange-trees, and other large trees moved there in their tubs. The whole parterre of flowers was festooned with lanterns and little colored lamps, making this fairy scene as bright as day. The ballroom and adjoining salons, of which the 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 or doors; these gave out into two colossal staircases which descended into the garden. It was such a beautiful night, so warm that we ladies could walk about in our ball-dresses without any extra wraps; there were about six thousand people invited, they said. It seemed as if all Paris was there.

After the quadrille d'honneur their Majesties circulated freely about. Every one was eager to offer congratulations to the Emperor. Was it not the greatest triumph of his reign to have the unanimous vote of all France—this overwhelming proof of his popularity? As he stood there smiling, with a gracious acknowledgment of the many compliments, he looked radiantly happy to thus receive the homage of his country. As the Emperor passed near me I added my congratulations, to which he replied, "Merci, je suis 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 on the stage played all the time; the balconies were festooned with flowers and filled with guests; there were supper-tables in the parquet and in the largest 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 not think that she is insatiable? I am sure that you will say that I ought to be contented after the long season of gaiety and excitement in Paris, and settle down in lovely Petit Val, where the lilacs and the violets call one with scented voices.

However, we decided to go to London.

Did I write to you of our breakfast at Armenonville? After Lord Lyons's ball, which lasted until six o'clock in the morning, Prince Metternich and several others thought that it would be a good idea to go home, change our ball-dresses for morning-dress, and go out to the Bois for our morning coffee. We did it.

I confess that it was a crazy thing to do after dancing all night; but the beautiful May morning, the glorious sunshine, and our spirits inspired us to 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 made was, "What fools!" They did not see any fun in it; neither did we, to tell the truth.

The Rothschilds, Lord Lyons, and Prince and Princess Metternich gave us what must have been very powerful letters, for we had hardly been in London more than a few days before we knew every one worth knowing, and all doors worth opening were opened to us, and I found myself what one calls lancee.

We took rooms in Park Street; that is, we had the two stories of the house. The landlady lived downstairs, and gave us our meals when we were at home. As soon as we got settled we left our cards and letters of introduction.

Invitation followed invitation in the most bewildering manner, sometimes several for the same day.

I could not begin to tell you all that we have already done. Writing letters seems to be the one thing which I have no time for. It is a perpetual push and rush from morning till night.

Our first dinner was at Baron and Baroness Rothschilds', where the Prince and 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 that he was the most dined-out and tired-out man in London, and that he had not eaten at home for six months.

I had not seen their Royal Highnesses since their visit to Paris during the Exposition. They said that they remembered me; but I cannot think it possible that they can have such wonderful memories.

I never saw such a splendid collection of orchids as there was on the table, 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' ballroom was a glorious place in which to make a debut.

Michael Costa, the well-known musician, came after dinner and accompanied me in the "Cavatina" from "Rigoletto," and the waltz from the "Pardon de Ploermel."

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 a great deal of expression an English song called, "Out on the rocks when the tide is low."

In your last letter you wrote, "I am afraid that you are on the way to become conceited." I am afraid myself I am, still I cannot resist telling you, 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 last thing I sang was "Beware!" which was immensely appreciated.

The Prince of Wales said: "That is a bewitching song. I never heard it before. Who composed it?"

I told him that it was written for me by my husband, and Longfellow had written 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 is nothing more to be said about it!

A luncheon at "Caroline, Duchess of Montrose's," at two o'clock upset me for the whole day. I am not accustomed to those big dejeuners- 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 their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales," and wanted to be extra up-to-the-mark, I felt just the contrary. However, after dinner the Prince of Wales asked me to sing, and I did not refuse, and even sang most of the evening. There was a charming Baron Hochschild, the Swedish Minister, who sang delightfully. He is a thorough musician, and accompanied himself perfectly with all the aplomb of an artist. He has a deep, rich barytone, and his repertoire consisted of all the well-known old Italian songs. Lady Molesworth is a beautiful old lady, who must have been a great beauty in her youth. She wears curls just like yours, dear mama, which made me love her. I met here Arthur Sullivan; he was full of compliments.

The next day we were invited to a matinee musicale at Lady Dudley's, preceded by a luncheon, which Mr. Osbourne called "a snare," because, he said, I could not refuse to sing. I did not want to refuse, either. The piano was in the beautiful picture-gallery, all full of Greuze's pictures bought from the Vatican; it has the most wonderful acoustics, and the voice sounded splendidly in it. Lady Dudley is a celebrated beauty. Lord Dudley—before he succeeded to the title—was Lord Ward. The Duke and Duchess of Sutherland asked us to dine. This was a very imposing affair; the Duke of Cambridge was at the dinner as the grosse piece, and there were many diplomats. After dinner several artists came from Covent Garden, and among them Madame Patti, who sang the "Cavatina" of "Lucia," with flute accompaniment, and how beautifully!

When I was introduced to her I said, "The first time I heard you sing was years 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; but that was a long time ago."

"It was indeed," I said; "but I have never forgotten your voice, nor a lovely song you sang which I have never heard since, called 'Happy Birdling 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 a thousand pounds for an evening. The Marquis de Caux (her husband) looked rather out of place. It seemed queer to see him again, not as the brilliant Marquis of the Tuileries (the "beau" par excellence), but simply 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 invitations were, "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 I had no idea you were going to be such a beast." "Beast!" I echoed. "That is not very complimentary." "A lion is a beast, isn't it?" he jokingly replied.

"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 and composer, and Arthur Sullivan, who asked me to sing in his little operetta, which some amateurs are rehearsing for a soiree at Lady Harrington's; and on my acceptance he brought the music for me to try over with him the next morning. The soiree was to be three days later. The music is nothing remarkable; in fact, the whole thing (it is called "The Prodigal Son") is not worthy of him. I have not met any of my fellow- performers yet. Forgive this jerky letter; I have been interrupted a thousand times. Charles thinks it is time to go back to Paris; but we have just received an invitation from Baron Alfred Rothschild to spend Ascot week—a sejour de sept jours—with a party at a house he has hired for 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 of the Princess of Wales, and we did it. The audience was accorded, and we presented ourselves at the appointed hour and were received by the lady of honor and shown into the beautifully arranged drawing-room. The Princess was most gracious; she certainly is the loveliest lady I have ever seen. I told her we were going to Ascot for the week, and she said that they were also going there and hoped they would see us. Our interview came to an end, 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 at Strawberry Hill, a mile or so out of London. Baron Alfred Rothschild offered to take us out there in his coach and-four. We dined first with the Baron Meyer Rothschild, and afterward drove out to Strawberry Hill. It is the most beautiful place you can imagine. I never saw anything so grand as the cedar-trees.

The cotillon lasted very late; the Duke of Saxe-Weimar talked a long time with me, mostly about music. He is very musical, and knows Liszt intimately, and told me a quantity of anecdotes about him. He was interested in what I told him about Liszt's going to the Conservatoire with Auber and me, and about the "Tannhaeuser" overture incident. It was six o'clock when we drove back to London. We saw the milk-carts on their morning rounds and the street-sweepers at work. One felt ashamed of oneself at being in ball-dress and jewels at this early hour, galloping through the streets in a fine carriage, making such a dreadful contrast to the poor working-people.

I had great fun at Lady Harrington's musical soiree, where Arthur Sullivan's "Prodigal Son" was to be sung.

We had been dining at Lady Londonderry's, and arrived rather late at Lady Harrington's. The whole staircase was crowded with people, and even down in the hall it was so full of ladies and gentlemen that there was no question 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!" "Perfectly useless!" and other such discouraging remarks. I said to a gentleman who sat stolidly on his step:

"Do you think I could send word to Mr. Sullivan that the Prodigal Son's mother 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 marched through it like the children of Israel through the Red Sea. I was enchanted to have my little fun. I joined the other performers, and the mother of the Prodigal Son was received with open arms. The Prodigal Son's father was pathos itself, and we rejoiced together over our weak tenor- boy. The only fatted calves that were to be seen belonged to the fat flunkeys.

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 Duchess of Newcastle, Hon. and Mrs. Stoner, one of the ladies of the Queen, Mr. Mitford, and others. Lady Campbell had only one 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 races in the daytime and low-necked in the evening. We drove to Ascot every day at one o'clock. We had seats in the Queen's stand, and after seeing one race we went to lunch with Mr. Delane, who had open table for one hundred people every day. Mr. Delane belongs to the Times newspaper.

Baron Rothschild had carte-blanche to bring any guest, or as many as he liked. The Prince of Wales always lunched there, and any one that was of importance was sure to be present. I made many new acquaintances, and you may imagine how I enjoyed this glimpse of a world so entirely unknown to me. 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 hired for the Ascot week), which was very charming and sans facon. I danced the 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. We drove home in the early morning, just as the day was breaking.

The next day we lunched first at the barracks, and then afterward went to Virginia Water, where the Princess of Wales had arranged a picnic. There was boating on the pretty lake and tents on the lawn; tea was served during the afternoon, and a military band played the whole time. The great attraction was the echo. We all had to try our voices, and the gentlemen made 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. We passed the night with Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman at their villa. The next day we were invited to a croquet-party and dinner by the Count and Countess de Paris.

We arrived at Twickenham Court at four o'clock, and began playing our game directly. Mrs. Hoffman had been praising me to the Countess de Paris to such a degree that she was fired with ambition to play against a "champion" of the first water, When we appeared on the ground I noticed that the Countess had a small ivory mallet. "This," I said to myself, "is a foregone conclusion; any one who plays with a fancy mallet, and that of ivory, is sure to be beaten." And in my conceit I thought I need not give myself much trouble about the game. Alas! I never appreciated the saying that "pride has a fall" until that day. At first I played with utter indifference, I was so sure of winning, and even when the Countess de Paris walked triumphantly over the ground, carrying everything before her, I smiled inwardly, saying to myself, "Just wait." But though I played my very best I never scored a game, and I could not even make a decent stroke. I felt so discouraged, and I was beaten all to pieces. The dinner was solemn and impressive, the whole Orleans 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 with myself, provoked at my silly self-assurance, and mortified that I had been beaten a plate couture, which in English means that all my seams had been 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 I ever was so tired. The week at Ascot, the picnic at Virginia Water, the balls, and the late sitting-up at night, all told on my nerves, and instead of resting at the Hoffmans', I passed a miserable and restless night.

The following day we returned to London in time to drive out, at one o'clock, with the Lionel Rothschilds to their country-place. It is the most magnificent estate; the cedar-trees are particularly beautiful, and the broad lawn, which stretches out in front of the house, is the finest I have ever seen. Baron Rothschild himself drove the coach and four horses, and we spun along the fine road, passing Richmond and all the pretty villas and gardens, which were full of roses. It was my birthday, and I had many splendid presents. From Baroness Rothschild I received a superb traveling-bag, all the fittings of silver gilt, with my initials. Baron Alfred Rothschild gave me a smelling-bottle, with the colors of his racing-stables in enamel. We had a delightful luncheon, and got back to London in time for dinner at Lady Sherbourne's. On hearing it was my birthday, she took a diamond-ring from her finger and gave it to me.

More balls, more dinners, luncheons, and garden-parties followed one another.

We intend to leave London after the ball at Marlborough House. I must go home, as I have nothing more to wear. We had accepted an invitation to the garden-party given by the Princess of Wales at Chiswick (their charming country-place). All the beauty and elegance of London graced the occasion. The Princess looked exquisite in her dainty summer toilette, and had a pleasant smile for every one. The Prince circulated among the guests, speaking to every one in his usual genial manner. The three little Princesses looked like three fluffy pink pin-cushions covered with white muslin. On the extensive lawn, which was like a green-velvet carpet, the ladies strolled about in their pretty, fresh dresses, sometimes sitting at the little tables which were shaded by large Japanese umbrellas placed between the terrace and the walk. It was a garden of living flowers.

The Prince of Wales, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, said to me, "What have you been doing since Ascot?"

"I have been doing a great deal, sir: dining and dancing and enjoying myself generally."

"I am glad to know that. Been singing?"

"Not much, sir. We dined at Twickenham Court, where I played a disastrous game 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 my birthday."

"Was it a large dinner?"

"It was rather large. The whole Orleans family was there, and some others."

"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 Emperor Napoleon to be allowed to return to France and serve in the army. Can you imagine why they want to go back to France when they can live quietly here and 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 looked exquisite. She is very lovely, and has gracious, sweet manners. I don't wonder that her people adore her; and I think the Prince is just as good as 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 days at Ferrieres, and when the invitation came we were obliged to send a telegram 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. Alphonse Rothschild says that, if there should be a war, it will be a tremendous one, and that Germany is better prepared than France. "But," said he, "you ought to know about that, as your brother-in-law Hatzfeldt is in the secrets of his country."

"That's just it," I answered; "because he is in the secrets of his country he is the last person to learn anything from, and we (the family) would be the last to know. But do you think that, if war were really imminent, the Emperor would think of giving a dinner?" I asked.

"That might be. We don't yet know what the result of Benedetti's interview with the King of Prussia at Ems will be," the Baron answered.

We stayed at Ferrieres until the 14th, and returned to Petit Val, where we received another invitation to St. Cloud for the 17th, which we accepted. On the 15th we went to Chamarande, returning to Paris on the following afternoon. The Duke de Persigny was not at Chamarande, otherwise we should have been a little more au courant of how desperate things looked in Paris. The Duchess had a word from the Duke the night before, "and he seemed," 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'y comprends rien," she replied, which was her invariable answer to any doubt expressed, or when one wanted a direct response.

We got back to town at half-past five, and I soon began dressing for the dinner. We drove out to St. Cloud, and arrived at the door of the chateau just before seven o'clock. What was our astonishment at not seeing any of the numerous servants who generally were waiting in the vestibule. There was only one man to be seen.

I began taking off my mantle, still wondering, when Monsieur de Laferriere came quickly out from one of the salons and said excitedly, "Did you not receive 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 easier than to call it back and return to Paris. And I put on my wrap to depart, and stood there waiting for the coupe. Then Monsieur de Laferriere came out again and said, "Her Majesty says that, now that you are here, you had better 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 well refuse, 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. The Empress came toward me and said kindly, "How do you do?" The Emperor held out his hand, but did not say a word. He looked so ill and tired. Never had I seen him look like that! The Prince Imperial seemed preoccupied and very serious.

Dinner was announced; the Emperor gave his arm to the Empress, and the Prince gave me his. There was no one beside ourselves and the Household, perhaps twenty in all, and dinner was served in the small dining-room looking 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 Emperor never 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 would receive telegram upon telegram; the gentleman sitting next to him opened the telegrams and put them before his Majesty. Every now and again the Emperor would look across the table to the Empress with such a distressed look it made me think that something terrible was happening, which was true. I could not learn much from my surroundings, as dead silence reigned. The dinner was very simple. How different from the gorgeous repasts of Compiegne, and how sad every one looked! I was glad when the signal for leaving the table was given and we re-entered the drawing-room.

The Emperor was immediately surrounded by his gentlemen. The Empress moved a little way off, but without taking her eyes from her husband. The Prince Imperial stood by his father, watching him. Then the Empress advanced toward his Majesty and took his arm to leave the room. Just as she neared the door she looked at me, turned back, and coming up to where I was standing held out her hand and said, "Bonsoir." The Emperor stood a moment irresolutely, then, bowing his head, left the room with the Empress on his arm, the Prince following.

We bade the dames d'honneur good night and fled, found the coupe before the entrance, and weren't we glad to get in it and drive away? I never in my life felt what it was to be de trop and even deux de trop. We reached the Rue de Courcelles at nine o'clock. It was too early to go to bed, and so I am sitting in my dressing-gown, while Charles has gone to his club to learn the latest news.

19th July.

This morning war was declared for sure, and they say that the Emperor is leaving soon with the Prince. Every one is very confident of the success of the French Army, and people go about in the streets singing "A Berlin" to the tune of "Les lampions."

PETIT VAL, 28th July.

The Emperor, with the Prince, left this morning for Metz, to take the command of the army. He did not come into Paris, but in order to avoid demonstrations, noise, etc., had a platform put up on the other side of the station at St. Cloud, where the Empress and her ladies could say their adieux without the crowd looking on. The last words the Empress said to her son were, "Louis, fais ton devoir." She is made the Regent during the absence of the Emperor.

30th August.

It looks now as if there might be war all over France. As it is, the Prussians are near Paris, and the French are trying to regain the ground they have lost. The news we get is very contradictory. According to the French official reports the French Army has been successful all the time. The English papers probably give the untarnished truth, unfavorable as it may be to France. Some people say that at the worst there is only a question of unimportant skirmishes.

We are well out of Paris and safely in Dinard, where Mr. Moulton is building a new house (we have already two). We left Petit Val rather precipitately, leaving everything behind us, clothes in wardrobes and letters 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 of war. I will not tell you any news, because it won't be news when you read it. We are and have been all the time fed on false reports, great placards pasted up everywhere telling of the French victories, but from our English papers we know the contrary. It is pitiful to see the poor, half-clad peasants being drilled on the beach with sticks in their hands instead of guns. It is the French idea of keeping up the spirits of the army.

I sang in the cathedral last Sunday, and the quete (the money taken), they said, was a large sum. I doubt it! I know what the quetes are here. Anything that can rattle in the bag is good. Buttons are particularly popular, 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 new villa were blown off. The servants who sleep there thought that the Germans had come at last, and were frightened out of the few wits they own.

Madame Gignoux, our neighbor at Petit Val, who is living in her other chateau in Brittany, sent a letter to me which I should send to Helen in Berlin, 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. Rather roundabout way! I can't tell you how much of that sort of thing I am constantly doing for people who are afraid of doing anything for themselves; 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 will understand why when I tell you that I received a letter from Mrs. Moulton to this effect: "If you wish to go to Petit Val to look after the things you left there when you went to Dinard last August, you had better come to Paris without delay, as the trains are running regularly now." The trains may have been running regularly (I left Dinard the next day), but they were certainly not running on time, for we missed all connections, and only arrived at Rennes after seven o'clock, too late to catch the evening train for Paris. The fine omnibus at the station made me imagine that it belonged to an equally fine hotel, but the hotel proved to be anything but fine. It was dreadfully dirty and shabby, and filled to overflowing. It was 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 a manger was thronged with officers clanking their swords on the brick floor and all talking at once. I passed a sleepless night, being kept awake by the loud and incessant conversations in the corridor and the continual tramping of soldiers under my window. We started for Paris the next morning at eight o'clock. The train was crowded with people who, like myself, 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—which had been frozen in January (poor things!)—were still bandaged, and hardly any of them possessed shoes. They did look, indeed, the picture of abject dejection and misery.

At Le Mans, the place where we stopped for luncheon, the soldiers were lying about on the brick pavement of the station, too tired and worn out to move, and presenting the saddest sight it has ever fallen to my lot to witness. They were waiting for the cattle vans to take them away. In these they would be obliged to stand until they reached Paris and its hospitals. Every one of the travelers was anxious to alleviate their misery in some way, by offering them cigars, food, and money. My heart bled for the poor creatures, 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 troops had seen the most desperate fighting during the war. All the trains we passed 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 to see 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 his experiences since last September. He had been living at Petit Val throughout the whole campaign, and was still there looking after our interests, faisant la navette between Petit Val, Paris, and Versailles at his will. He had free passes for all these places. On my arrival at the Rue de Courcelles I found the family well, Mrs. Moulton knitting as usual, Mademoiselle Wissembourg napping, and Mr. Moulton reading the Journal des Debats out loud in his peculiar French.

I thought of the "Brook," by Tennyson: "Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever." The family had not eaten cats and dogs during the siege as, 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 stock of provisions, such as ham, biscuit, rice, etc., and all sorts of canned things, which he deemed would be sufficient for all their requirements. They had even given dinner-parties limited to a very choice few, who sometimes brought welcome additions in the shape of other canned delicacies.

When the family moved from Petit Val to Paris last September, the French Government had given them permission to keep one or two cows. They also brought a calf, a sheep, and some chickens with them. The cows and the sheep shared the stables with the horses, while the chickens were let loose in the conservatory, and were expected to lay enough eggs to pay for their board. The gardener had cleverly converted the conservatory into a sort of kitchen garden, and had planted some useful vegetables, such as radishes, carrots, salad, etc., so you see the family took good care that it should have enough to eat, and mice and rats only appeared on the table after the repasts.

PARIS, March 16, 1871.

DEAR MAMA,—This has been a very fatiguing day for me, so you will only receive a short letter.

Paul [Footnote: Count Hatzfeldt, my brother-in-law.] invited Mrs. Moulton and me to come to Versailles, and offered us a cup of tea as an inducement. You know Paul is Count Bismarck's private secretary, having been with him and the German sovereign during the entire war. He is still at Versailles, but expects to leave for Berlin one of these first days. He came 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 not furnished steaks for famished Parisians, but continued to trot complacently about, as of old). Fortunately they were not too fat to carry us through the park at a lively pace, and land us at Paul's palatial residence. It seemed strange to see German officers, in their tight- fitting uniforms, strolling leisurely about in the park, where before I had only seen the rather slovenly pious-pious on holidays, when the fountains played by day and the fireworks by night.

The park looked enchanting in its spring toilette, and made me think of the last time I was here. Could it have been only last May? It seems years ago!

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 Ferrieres, 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 the salle de glaces—the greatest emotion he had ever experienced, he said. He had also been witness of the signing of the armistice. The pen with which it was signed had been given him as a souvenir, and it was lying on his table.

Paul thought the Emperor Napoleon more to be pitied than blamed. He had gone into this war without really knowing the true state of things. He was made to believe that there were four hundred thousand men ready to take the field, when in reality there were only half that number, and those certainly not fit to be pitted against the Germans, who had been provided with better and newer maps than the French, and knew France and its army more thoroughly than the French themselves. We could have talked on this subject 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 for the 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, I met in Dinard fresh from America (via Southampton). When I bade them good-by, I said, in an offhand way, "When you come to Paris you must come and 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. This morning, when we were at luncheon, the concierge came rushing in, the tassels on his calotte bristling with agitation.

"Madame," he gasped, "there is a fiacre full of people with a lot of trunks 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 them to be so empresses. I went into the salon, followed by Mademoiselle W——, where we found Mr. O—— seated at his ease in a fauteuil, his feet reposing on the white-bear rug.

I apologized for having kept him waiting, but explained that we had been at luncheon.

He (complacently), "Oh, that's all right; we have just arrived in Paris and 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 outside in 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 me at home.

"We thought before trying anywhere else we would see if you could take us in."

This staggered me considerably. I tried to take him "in" as he stood before me with traveling cap and umbrella.

"Are you full?" he went on. Mademoiselle and I wondered if we showed signs of a too copious luncheon.

"Why, what a nice place you have here!" looking about. "Well," he continued, 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 or a burglar who had come to take a survey of the hotel. Her bracelets and bunch of keys rattled ominously as the thought of burglars entered her brain.

He, familiarly settling himself down for a chat, "Do you think you could pick up a maid for Mrs. O——?"

Mademoiselle and I exchanged a glance of intelligent indulgence and thought: All our friends wanted, probably, was a few addresses before settling themselves in Paris. How stupid of us not to have thought of this sooner! I hastened to promise all sorts of names and addresses of tradespeople, 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 glanced knowingly at the hot-air flue which she had been told was a register.

"We have," she answered curtly, wondering if this extraordinary creature could be suffering from cold on this warm spring day.

"I had better write my name down!" This was too much! Mademoiselle thought now 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 her velvet bow an agitated pat.

"Money is no object," continued he; "I'm always willing to pay what one asks." Mademoiselle now thought he was drunk and was for sending for the servants.

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 to him 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 mind being in a quiet part of Paris, as Maria wants to learn French"; and seeing the conservatory, he remarked: "Arthur can play in there. That'll do splendidly." After an awkward pause: "Well, if the rooms are ready, we can 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: "I guess 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 her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders,

I explained to my guest his mistake. Instead of saying, "Oh! that's all right," he said, "Well, I'll be blessed," and without wasting any more time than for a hasty good-by he marched out to join the tired Maria, the baby, the nurse, and Arthur. We watched them as they drove off, all gazing out 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 Petit Val. 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 the afternoon. We drove to the Gare de la Bastille and took our tickets for La Varenne. The station was so horribly dirty, it looked as if it had not been swept or cleaned since the commencement of the war, and as for the first-class compartment we entered I really hesitated to sit down on the shabby and dilapidated cushions.

We traveled very slowly, and stopped at every station mentioned in the time-table. Although these were devoid of travelers, the conductor opened the doors of all the carriages, and after waiting the allotted time shouted mechanically, "En voiture," though there was absolutely no one to get in.

I thought we never would arrive!

All the little towns, once so thrifty and prosperous, are now hardly more than ruins. It is no wonder that this part of the country (Vincennes, St. Maur, Chenvieres, etc.) is so destroyed, because it was all about here that 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 in water and debris of stone and mortar on the shore.

Henry and I, having no alternative, were obliged to walk from the station to the pontoon bridge, made, Henry said, in one night. I don't know about that; but what I do know is that the French blew up my bridge in one night. Then we made the whole distance to Petit Val on foot, passing by the chateaux of Ormesson, Chenvieres, Grand Val, and Montalon.

All the chateaux we passed are utterly abandoned, some quite in ruins; one can see, for instance, right through beautiful Grand Val, bereft of windows and doors.

But worse was awaiting me! My heart sank within me when we came in sight of the potager, the glory of Petit Val, so renowned in its day for its fruits and vegetables. Now it is frightful to see! Its walls torn asunder; cannon put in its crenelated sides, dilapidated and destroyed; the garden filled with rubbish of all description. But, as though nature were protesting against all this disorder and neglect, the cherry-trees were placidly blossoming; the almond-trees, with their delicate pink flowers, filled the air with perfume: everything, in short, doing its part in spite of war and bloodshed. Your heart would ache if you could see the place as it is now. The porter's lodge is completely gutted, windowless and doorless, open to wind and weather.

It seems strange to see a sentry-box stationed at the entrance of the park and a sentinel pacing to and fro. Henry gave the password, and we walked up the avenue toward the chateau. I will not weary you by trying to depict my feelings, but will leave you to imagine what they must have been. I looked in vain for the beautiful Lebanon cedar which, you remember, stood where my nightingale used to sing, on the broad lawn. Henry said that it had been the first tree that the Germans had cut down, and it had been lying there on the lawn just as it fell, where the soldiers could conveniently cut their fuel. Henry called my attention to a white flag flying on the chateau, which, at Paul's request, Count Bismarck had ordered to be put there.

Henry said it signified in military language that only staff officers were to occupy the chateau, and that no unnecessary damage should be done "if we are quiet." Did Bismarck think we were likely to be unruly and go about shooting people? The one thing in the world we wanted was to be quiet. The flag also signified that the chateau should be protected. Henry had once complained to Bismarck of the damage done by the German soldiers at Petit Val, and Bismarck had replied, "A la guerre comme a 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 of sins."

"The exigencies of war, if you like that better," rejoined Bismarck.

Paul Hatzfeldt wrote to Helen last September that the King of Prussia had promised to put Petit Val under special protection. He even wished to go there himself; but Paul thought Petit Val looked so spoiled that he was glad the King did not go. If it was spoiled in September last, imagine what it must have been six months later, with six months of soldiers to spoil it!

When we arrived at the chateau itself the officers, who had evidently just been lunching, came out to meet us, wondering, apparently, who this courageous lady (poor trembling me!) could possibly be. Henry knew their names, and presented them all to me; they clanked their heels together and made the most perfect of military salutes.

The commanding officer in charge of Petit Val is Count Arco, a major of a Bavarian regiment. I hastened to explain my presence among them, saying that I wished to collect the various things I had left in the chateau when I went away last August, and I had taken advantage of the first occasion which offered itself of coming here.

Count Arco held a short conversation with Henry, who told him I would like to go to my apartment. "Do not trouble to have anything disarranged for me," I said, "as I shall only be here for a short time. My mother-in-law is driving out later in the afternoon to take me back to Paris."

While we were talking Count Arco informed me that there were twenty six officers in the chateau itself and one hundred and twenty soldiers quartered 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 had evidently been hurriedly evacuated, but they looked quite nice and clean. I was agreeably surprised to find my writing-desk and commodes pretty nearly 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 my wearing apparel, which had considerably diminished since my departure. Waists without their skirts, and skirts without their waists, and I found various female articles unknown to me; but never mind! Honi soit qui mal y pense!

It was said in France that no German could resist a clock, and that the dearth 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 been many hundreds of them), my clock was ticking away as of old on my mantelpiece.

Having finished packing the things to take with me, I wished to have a look at protected Petit Val.

The "unavoidable destruction" had been interpreted in a very liberal sense.

The salon was a sight never to be forgotten. The mirrors which paneled the whole 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 the Marquis de Marigny (the former owner of Petit Val and brother of Madame de Pompadour) 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 should say, from a neighboring cafe.

The library, formerly containing such rare and valuable books, is now a bedroom—the shelves half empty, the books scattered about, some of them piled up in a corner and used as a table. Henry said that, when any one wanted 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 frames and glasses of the engravings were broken; but, fortunately, all the engravings 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 were there they were cooking some very smelly cabbage a la tedesco.

My pretty pavilion! If you could have seen it!

Evidently the all-powerful flag had not protected this, for it was without doors, windows, and parquets. The only thing in it was a dear little calf munching his last meal before being killed. To make it look more like a slaughter-house, there were haunches of beef hanging on the Louis XV. appliques, which had been left on the walls to serve as nails. Fresh blood was 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 took a sad walk through the park. The once beautifully kept lawn is now like a ploughed field, full of ruts and stones.

The lake was shining in the sun, but on it there were no boats. The grotto over which used to trickle a little waterfall was completely dry, showing the ugly stucco false rocks. It seemed dismal and forlorn. I wondered how I ever could have thought it beautiful! The riviere was without its pretty 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 the carriage every moment; but there was no sign of it, though we scanned the length 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, Count Arco 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 she certainly would have telegraphed. He then inquired if I wished to send a telegram. No sooner had I said "yes" than an orderly appeared on horseback to take the telegram to the station. He returned, while we still stood in the avenue looking for the longed-for carriage, with the astounding news that all the telegraph wires were cut.

To take the train was our next idea, and the wondering orderly was again sent back to find out when the next train would start. This time he returned with still more astounding news.

There were no trains at all!

Count Arco seemed to be most agitated, and I could see, by the expression of the faces of the other officers, that they were more disturbed than they wanted us to notice.

What should I do? Everything was in ruins in the village. There was not even an auberge of the smallest dimensions. All the neighboring chateaux were abandoned. Of whom could I ask hospitality? Count Arco, seeing my embarrassment, proposed my staying the night at Petit Val. Henry's living there made it easier for me. So I accepted his offer; besides, there was no choice. The soldiers arranged my room according to their ideas of a lady'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 to me to be presiding at my own table surrounded by German officers, Count Arco being my vis-a-vis.

Do you want to know what we had for dinner? Bean soup, brought from Germany. Sausages and cabbage, put up in Germany. Coffee and zwiebacks, I suppose also from Germany.

The evening passed quickly, and I must admit very pleasantly. Any one who had pretensions to music played or sang, Henry performed some of his compositions; one officer did some card tricks. They all had an anecdote of their experience from the past months, which they told with great relish. Henry whispered to Count Arco: "My sister-in-law sings. Why don't you ask her for a song?" I could have pinched him!

Although I was very tired and did not feel like it, I reflected that almost 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 amuse me?

I seated myself at the piano and commenced with one of Schumann's songs, and then I sang "Ma Mere etait Bohemienne," of Masse, which had a great success, and at the refrain, "Et moi! j'ai l'ame triste," there was not a dry 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, after blowing his nose, said, in his delightfully broken English, "You zing like an angle [I hope he meant angel]. It is as if ze paradise vas opened to us." Then he retired in a corner and wiped his eyes. I sang "Ein Jungling liebt ein Maedchen," of Schumann, and when I came to the line, "Und wem das just passieret, dem bricht das Herz entzwei," I heard a mournful sigh. It came from the Benjamin of the flock, a very young officer, who sat with his hands over his face sobbing audibly. What chord had I struck? Was his the heart that was breaking entzwei?

I had sung to many people, but I think I never sang to a more appreciative audience than this one.

Henry accompanied me in "Beware!" Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They all gathered around me, eager to thank me for the unexpected pleasure. I really think they meant what they said.

When I returned to my room I looked out of my window and saw the sentinel pacing to and fro in the moonlight. I realized for the first time that the chateau 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 orderly brought me a very neatly arranged tray, with tea and buttered toast and a note from Henry announcing the terrible news that Paris was under arms—a revolution (rien que ca) had broken out, and all approaches to the city were barricaded. This was news indeed! I understood now why no carriage came last night, why trains were stopped, why telegraph wires were 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 and different possibilities, but without any practical result.

Every one was much excited about the news. The officers pretended not to know more than we did; perhaps what they did know they did not care to tell. We saw messengers flying in all directions, papers handed about, more messengers galloping down the avenue, agitation written on the faces around us. All I knew was that there was a revolution in Paris and I was here.

Going out to the stables, we found the soldiers grooming their horses unconcernedly. From there we went to the orangerie, which presented a queer sight. The soldiers, of whom there must have been sixty, had arranged their beds all along the walls on both sides, and to separate them one from another had placed a tub with its orange-tree. The aviary had been converted into a drying-ground for their lingerie; they had suspended ropes from side to side, and thereon hung their week's wash amid all its "unavoidable destruction." Henry told me that when the Germans first came to Petit Val they begged old Perault (the butler) to hand them the key of the wine-cellar, and on his refusing they had tied the old man to a tree in the park, and left him there the whole of one cold night to consider the situation. Needless to say, the next day the Germans had the key. After they had taken all the best Chateau-Lafitte and all 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 poor creatures doubled up with torture he would have felt himself amply revenged.

We ascended the hill behind the chateau to the high terrace, from where one can see Paris. We saw no smoke, therefore Paris was not burning. But what was happening there? We returned to breakfast, where the military band was playing on the lawn (a superfluous luxury, I thought, but I did not realize that so trivial a thing as a revolution could not interfere with military order). We were treated to the eternal sausage and something they called beefsteak; it might as well have been called "supreme de donkey," it was so tough. However, the others ate it with iron jaws and without a pang. Count Arco suggested I should take a drive, en attendant les evenements, 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 caleche, a mere ghost of its former self, dragged by four artillery horses and postilioned by two heavy dragoons.

"The exigencies of war" had obliged the soldiers to remove the leather, the carpet, the cushions, and all the cloth; only the iron and wood remained to show that once this had been a carriage.

This ancient relic drew up with a thump on what had been flower-beds, and the Count opened the door for me to enter, but on observing my look of dismay when I saw the hard, cushionless seats, despatched an officer to try to find a cushion for me. Apparently, however, cushions were souvenirs our friends had forgotten to bring with them from other residences. Judging from the time we waited, the officer must have ransacked the whole house, but had found nothing better than a couple of bed-pillows, with which he appeared, carrying one under each arm, to the great amusement of the beholders. I mounted this grotesque equipage, the Count and Henry following, and sat enthroned on my pillows of state.

We asked, before starting, if there was any news from Paris, and receiving an answer in the negative, we drove off. Up hills, over lawns and flower- beds, zigzagging through vineyards and gardens, never by any chance keeping to the proper road, we made the tour of the environs.

To give you an idea how completely the chateaux had been ransacked, I can tell you that I picked up about a yard and a half of handsome Brussels lace in the courtyard of the chateau of Sucy. We drove hastily through the adjoining estate of Grand Val, which looked even more deplorable than Sucy. I began to wonder if the artillery horses and the carcass of the vehicle in which we sat would be capable of carrying me to Paris, or at least within walking distance of it. You see, I was beginning to get desperate. Here was I, with the day almost over, without any apparent prospect of getting away. But, as the Psalmist puts it, "Sorrow endureth for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." My joy came late in the afternoon, on returning to Petit Val, where I found the landeau of the American Legation, my mother-in-law, and (hobnobbing with the German officers) 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 was impossible; to send a groom on horseback equally so. Finally, as a last resource, they had written to Mr. Washburn to see if he could not solve the 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 being profuse in our mutual thanks), we started for Paris, passing through Alfort, Charenton, and many villages, all more or less in ruins. There were plenty of people lounging about in the streets. We reached Vincennes without difficulty; but thenceforth our troubles commenced in earnest.

Mr. Washburn thought it more prudent to close the carriage, cautioning the coachman to drive slower. We were stopped at every moment by soldiers and barricades; then Mr. Washburn would show his card and his laissez passer, after which we were allowed to pass on, until we came to more soldiers and more barricades. Omnibuses turned over, paving-stones piled up, barrels, ladders, ropes stretched across the streets, anything to stop the circulation. Poor Mr. Washburn was tired out popping his head first out of one window then out of the other, with his card in his hand.