I would like to see it in summer, not in this season, when one perishes with cold and longs, in spite of its beauty, to be out of it and in a warmer place.
There was a dense fog on the lake and a mist in the forest when we left, and it was dreadfully damp and cold. The postilions took a shorter cut and carried us through La Brévière and St. Jean aux Bois.
I should think both must be charming in summer; but now—ugh!
What was my delight at the Empress's tea this afternoon to see Auber, my dear old Auber! He had been invited for dinner, and had come with the artists who are to play to-night. He looked so well and young, in spite of his eighty-three years. Every one admires him and loves him. He is the essence of goodness, talent, and modesty. He is writing a new opera. Fancy writing an opera at eighty-three!
I asked what the name of it was. He answered: "'Le Rêve d'Amour.' The title is too youthful and the composer is too old. I am making a mistake, but what of that? It is my last!"
I said I hoped he would live many more years and write many more operas.
He shook his head, saying, "Non, non, c'est vraiment mon dernier!"
Monsieur de Lareinty said to the Empress at tea that there was an unusual amount of musical talent among her guests—a real galaxy of stars seldom to be found in amateurs.
The galaxy may have existed—but the stars! The Milky Way seen through the wrong end of an opera glass was nothing to the smallness of their magnitude.
The Empress caught at the idea directly, and the decree went out that there should be a concert tomorrow evening; not mere desultory singing, but singers and songs in regular order.