June 5th, evening.
This morning at 8.30 I heard dear Aunt L.'s voice outside my door. She had arrived from Orizaba with Laurita, who has masses of beautiful red-gold hair. She is now sitting in a big armchair, doing nothing, I am thankful to say, though The House of Mirth is within reach when she feels like reading. So glad to have her here.
June 7th.
The reception at the Casasuses last night was a most gorgeous affair. He is one of the few científicos still visible in Mexico City, a man of much cultivation and erudition. He has preserved his relations with the Madero family, also his money, but there is that in his eye which makes one feel that he has not preserved his illusions.
The reception was to open his splendid new house in the Calle de los Heroes, which has been building since some years, and also for the contrat de mariage of his eldest daughter. A fine band was sounding as we went in through the zaguán. The great patio was covered with a sort of light-blue velum, and behind it were myriads of star-like lights. The great fountain was ablaze, too, and everything was decorated with wreaths of marguerites, recalling the name of the fiancée, who is to marry a son of the famous Justo Sierra, Minister of Public Instruction under Diaz.
Madame C., large and impressive and a blaze of diamonds, was flanked by her two pretty, slim daughters, very jeune fille as to dress, but rather sophisticated as to expression. The novia was in white, and the younger girl in a similar costume of blue.
All strata of society were there, even the "pillars," holding up things for this single occasion; charming-looking and beautifully dressed women I had not seen before—some of that invisible chicheria I suppose; the official set, the military, etc., etc. There were some fine jewels—great plaques of emeralds much in evidence—and one lady wore a strange necklace of very large, very lustrous, almost square pearls.
The rooms are elaborately furnished in the modern French style. The brocade-covered walls hung with expensive modern French paintings. Portraits of Monsieur and Madame Casasus, by one of the great French artists, I forget which, were in the large pink-and-gold salon. The magnificent library, with thousands of volumes, the collection of a lifetime, was furnished from London by Waring and had long tables bearing atlases and big in-quarto volumes, deep leather chairs, and reading lamps, most inviting.
The supper was lavish to a degree; it was whispered about that the cost of the entertainment was fifty thousand dollars. Madame C. presided over the huge square table of the diplomats, loaded with great candelabra, beautiful imported fruits in massive silver dishes and rare flowers in tall silver vases. I was taken down by a general whose name I didn't get, in the fullest of regimentals, who had lost an arm in some one of the interior campaigns—I think Madero's.
The champagne flowed; French pâtés, asparagus, all sorts of things which had come from long distances, were passed by liveried servants. Don Sebastian Camacho, sighting his ninetieth year, was the beau of the occasion, carrying his years lightly and gallantly, entouré de dames. We came away at one o'clock, leaving things in full swing, the music and the pounding of the dancing feet echoing through the great patio.[52] Now I am off to the Red Cross.