She was born a Bourbon Condé, the daughter of the Prince of Orleans, and the fleurs de lys which were hers by right were still visible on the keystones of the window arches of our little chateau.
There was a large white salon with delicately carved woodwork, which was lighted by three windows overlooking the terrace. It was a perfectly preserved masterpiece of the Seventeenth Century.
The room where I worked was also lighted by three windows and here one could admire a mantel, a real marvel of art in Louis XIV style. I found a large table of the same period at Rouen. I was at ease at it because I could arrange the leaves of my orchestral score on it.
It was at Pont de l'Arche that I learned one morning of Mme. Carvalho's death. This was bound to plunge the art of singing and the stage in deep mourning for she had been with her masterly talent the incarnation of both for long years. Here too I received the visit of my director, Léon Carvalho, who was terribly stricken by her death. He was overcome by this irreparable loss.
Carvalho came to ask me to finish the music of La Vivandière, a work on which Benjamin Godard was working, but which the state of his health led them to fear he would never finish.
I refused this request curtly. I knew Benjamin Godard and his strong-mindedness as well as the wealth and liveliness of his inspiration. I asked Carvalho not to tell of his visit and to let Benjamin Godard finish his own work.
That day ended with a rather drole incident. I set out to get a large carriage to take my guests to the station. At the appointed time an open landau appeared at my door. It had at least sixteen springs, was lined with blue satin, and one got in by a triple step-ladder arrangement which folded up when the door was closed. Two thin, lanky white horses, real Rossinantes, were harnessed to it.
My guests at once recognized this historic looking coach for they had often met its owners riding in it on the Bois de Boulogne. Public malice had found these people so ridiculous that they had given them a nickname which in the interests of decorum I must refrain from mentioning. I will only say that it was borrowed from the vocabulary of zoology.
Never had the streets of that little town, usually so calm and peaceful, echoed with such shouts of laughter. They did not stop till the station was reached, and I will not swear that they were not prolonged after that.
Carvalho decided to give La Navarraise at the Opéra-Comique in May, 1895.