Last night we stayed in Paris, to be ready at half-past two this afternoon. To describe our departure, arrival, and reception would only be to repeat what I have already written last year. Among the fifty or sixty guests there were many who were here then. In addition there are Duke d'Albe, with his daughters; Baron Beyens, the Belgian Minister; Mr. Mallet, of the English Embassy, Mr. Dué of the Swedish Legation; the poet, Prosper Mérimée; and many, of course, I do not know.
Singularly enough, we were shown into the same apartment we had before, which made us feel quite at home. We found tea, chocolate, and cakes on the table, of which I partook with enthusiasm, and then enjoyed an hour's rest before dressing for dinner.
We met at seven o'clock in the Salle des Fêtes, the only room in this huge chateau large enough to contain all the party here (I suppose there must be one hundred and twenty people), for which reason it serves both as reception and ballroom.
The Empress looked superb in a gown of an exquisite shade of lilac; she wore her beautiful pearls and a tiara of diamonds and pearls. When she approached me she held out her hand, and said she was very glad to see me. The Emperor was kind and gracious, as usual.
The Baron Gourgaud was told to take me in to dinner, and we followed the procession to the dining-room, passing the Cent Gardes, who looked like an avenue of blue and glittering trees. The Baron Gourgaud and I are neighbors in the country, their place, La Grange, being not far from Petit Val. His conversation is not absorbing; but as he knows he is dull he does not pretend to be anything else. I was thankful for this, as I felt that I did not need to make the slightest effort to entertain him.
I cast my eyes round the table, and if I had not known that this was la série amusante I should never have guessed it—every one seemed so spiritless and "sans le moindre entrain," as my neighbor remarked.
No excitement this evening but the dance. Waldteufel is suppressed! They say that the Emperor, who has a horror of publicity in private life, was very displeased last year by the indiscretions and personal anecdotes, and especially the caricatures made by Gustave Doré, which appeared in the Figaro. The Emperor vowed that no outsiders should be invited again; therefore poor Waldteufel has to pay les pots cassés, and we must make our own music.
Looking for a substitute for Waldteufel, a clever chamberlain discovered the "Debain piano" (mechanical piano).
You remember I had one in my youth. How I loved it! How I used to love to grind out all the beautiful music those ugly boxes contained! And how I used to wonder that those common wooden slides could reproduce such perfect imitations of the real thing.
I was so glad to see one again, and envied the perspiring chamberlain, who looked bored to extinction having to turn the crank, instead of joining the dance and turning the heads of the ladies. It took two of them to manage the complexities of the piano, and as neither possessed a musical turn of the wrist, and as neither had the remotest idea of time or measure, it was very hard for us poor dancers!