Part 48

Prince Valdemar, the youngest son of the King of Denmark, and Princess Marie, his wife, were dining yesterday with us, with Prince George of Greece, who is extremely agreeable and handsome. She (the Princess Marie) when in Paris stays with her parents, the Due and Duchesse de Chartres, in their beautiful palace, known In Paris for its artistic architecture and its onyx staircase.

The Princess desired to meet President Faure for some reason, and, as she could not do that In her father's house, she desired us to arrange a meeting on the neutral ground of the Legation. On the day fixed they met here In the afternoon. I remained out of the salon, and only returned when the tea-table was brought in. The President partook of his tea with graceful nonchalance.

PARIS, 1897.

Dear L.,--You ask, "What are you doing?" If you had asked what are we not doing I would have told you, but what we are doing covers acres of ground. We are in a whirlwind of duties and pleasures, dinners, soirées, and balls. It would bore you to death to hear about them. Many of my old friends are still in Paris; those you knew are Countess Pourtales (just become a widow); Marquise Gallifet, who is more separated from her husband than ever. She remains Faubourgeoise St.-Germain, and he favors the Republic.

I find Christine Nillson here. From Madame Rivière she has become Countess Casa-Miranda. She has a pretty little hôtel near us, where she sings not, "neither does she spin." I meet her at dear old Mrs. Pell's Sunday-afternoon ladies' teas. Nillson and I are the youngest members of the club. You may imagine what the others must be in the way of years. Mrs. Pell gives us each (we are twelve) a gold locket with a teacup engraved on its back, and a lock of her once brown hair inside, and we assemble and eat American goodies made in an ultra-superior manner by her chef.

Our occupations or amusements depend very much upon whom we are with. A whole army of doctors has just descended on us, and we are doing the medical side of Paris. One day we went to see Dr. Doyen, the celebrated cutter-up of men. He said that operations other doctors spent an hour over he did in ten minutes. It sounds a little boastful, but after what I saw I am sure that it is true. He has a very large hospital where he preaches and practises and gives cinematographic representations of his most famous operations. It was very interesting, because at the same time that we were looking at him in the pictures he was sitting behind us explaining things. Strange to say that one or two of the doctors with us fainted away. The ladies did not faint, neither did they look on. The operation which took the most time was the cutting apart of the little Indian twins, Radica and Dodica. This last one (poor little sickly thing) was dying of tuberculosis, and the question was whether the well one should be separated or die with her sister. While this was going on the little survivor came to the door and begged to be let in (she was tired of running up and down the corridor); therefore we knew that the operation had succeeded, which helped to make it less painful to witness.

We visited, in company with these same doctors, the Pasteur Institute, young M. Pasteur accompanying us. We began at the rooms where they examined hydrophobia in all its developments. Persons who have been bitten by any animal are kept under observation, and they have to go to the Institute forty times before they are either cured or beyond suspicion. There are two large rooms adjoining each other, one for the patients and the other for the doctors. Every morning the unhappy men and women are received and cared for.

May 15, 1898.

My dear L.,--We have just come home from bidding our Crown Prince and Princess good-by at the station.

On Thursday Madame Faure and her daughter came to see me. On bidding them adieu I said I hoped the President had not forgotten the photograph of himself which he had promised me. Madame Faure answered, "Vous l'aurez ce soir méme, chère Madame." That very evening while we were dining with Count and Countess Cornet we heard that Félix Faure had suddenly died. To-day we learned how he had died. Not through the papers, but secretly, in an undertone and with a hushed voice.

I think that the French papers ought to take the prize in the art of keeping a secret. One could never imagine that a whole nation could hold its tongue so completely! There appeared no sensational articles, no details, and no comments on the President of the French Republic's departure from this world. Everything in the way of details was kept secret by the officials. In our country, and, in fact, in every other country, such discretion would have been impossible; the news in all its details would have been hawked about the streets in half an hour. Here was simply the news that Félix Faure had died.

A week later the President's funeral took place at Nôtre Dame. Seats were reserved for the Corps Diplomatique by the side of the immense catafalque which stood in the center of the cathedral. Huge torches were burning around it. After every one was seated, in came the four officers sent by the German Emperor. Four giants! The observed of all observers! Their presence did not pass unnoticed, as you may imagine. They seemed more as if they were at a parade than at a funeral. The music was splendid; The famous organist Guilmant was at the organ, and did "his best." I believe Notre Dame never heard finer organ-playing. I never did.

The streets were full of troops; the large open square in front of the cathedral was lined with a double row of soldiers. The diplomats followed on foot in the procession from Notre Dame to Père la Chaise, traversing the whole of Paris.

PARIS, 1899.

My dear Sister,--You may think what a joy it is to me to have my dear friend Mrs. Bigelow Lawrence staying with me here. Every day we go to some museums and do a little sight-seeing. She is interested in everything.

The new President (Loubet) gave us for one night the Presidential loge at the Grand Opéra, and I cannot tell you how delighted we were to hear Wagner's "Meistersinger" given in French, and marvelously executed. All the best singers took part. The orchestra was magnificent beyond words. The artists played with a delicacy and a culte not even surpassed at Bayreuth. In the entr'actes we reviewed--seated in the luxurious, spacious loge where the huge sofas and the fauteuils offered their hospitable arms--our impressions, which were ultra-enthusiastic. Near us was Madame Cosima Wagner, whom one of our party went to see. She expressed the greatest pleasure at the performance, not concealing her surprise that a representation in French and in France could be so perfect. If that most difficult of ladies was satisfied, imagine how satisfied we must have been!

As a bonne bouche we took Mrs. Lawrence to Madame Carnot's evening reception. These receptions are not gay. They might be called standing-soirées, as no one ever sits down. The guests move in a procession through the salons, the last one of which is rather a melancholy one. In the middle of it is a square piece of marble lying flat on the floor, and a quantity of withered wreaths and faded ribbons piled up on it. They are the souvenirs of the late President's funeral. Madame Carnot, a most charming lady, wears a long black veil as in the first days of her widowhood, and receives in a widowed-Empress manner.

Mrs. Lawrence's visit is the incentive for active service in the army of musicians. The President often sends me the ci-devant Imperial loge at the Conservatoire. In old times I used to think how splendid it would be to sit here! Now I have the twelve seats to dispose of--six large gilded Empire fauteuils in front, and six small ones behind. There is always a bright coal-fire in the salon adjoining, but it does not take away the damp coldness from a room where a ray of light or a breath of fresh air never can penetrate. The concerts seem exactly the same as they used to be; they do not appear to have changed either in their repertoires or in their audiences. Beethoven, Haydn, and Bach are still the fashion, and the old habitués still bob their heads in rhythmical measure.

The chorus of men and women look precisely as they did when dear old Auber was directeur (twenty-five years ago). I think that they must be the same. The sopranos are still dressed in white, and the contraltos in black, indicative of their voices' color.

Pugno with his pudgy hands played the Concerto of Mozart in his masterful manner. One wonders how he can have any command over the keyboard, he has such short arms and such a protruding stomach.

As a modern innovation Pierno's "Création" was given, beautifully executed, but received only with toleration.

Just to go up the familiar worn staircase brought the old scenes vividly before me. Then it was a great piece of luck to obtain a seat within its sacred walls, and such an event to go to a concert that I can still remember my sensations.

PARIS, 1899.

My dear Sister,--You ask me to tell you about the "Dreyfus affair."

It is a lengthy tale, and such a tissue of lies and intrigue that common sense wonders if the impossible cannot be possible, if wrong cannot be right. You probably know more of the details of the case than I do, if you have followed it from the beginning, as I am just beginning to follow.

I assure you it is as much as your life is worth to speak about it; and, as for bringing people together or inviting them to dinner, you must first find out if they are Dreyfusards or anti-Dreyfusards, otherwise you risk your crockery. The other day I was talking to an old gentleman who seemed very level-headed on the start. Perhaps I might learn something! I ventured to say, "Do tell me the real facts about the Dreyfus affair." Had I told him that he was sitting on a lighted bomb the effect on him could not have been more startling.

"Do you know that he is the greatest traitor that has ever lived? He gave the bordereau to the German government."

"What is a bordereau?" I asked.