Dear L.,—You might think that we are nearly exhausted, but health and energy seem to assert themselves, and we bob up like those weighted playthings children have. We have turned heads-up from our journey to Denmark. We celebrated our silver wedding at Aalholm. I won't bother you with the usual phrase, "How the time has flown!" Twenty-five years! You have seen what an ordinary wedding in Denmark is like. You can coat this one with silver, and then you will but know half the excitement. The setting being Aalholm, the chief actors J. and I, the chorus being family and friends, you may imagine that this fête left nothing to be desired. Guests came from everywhere to the number of forty. Even our best man came from Norway. Deputations and telegrams dropped on us by the hundreds; presents of silver in every form and shape. My dress was silver, and silver sprays in my hair, and J. wore them in his buttonhole. The dinner arranged by Frederick on viking lines was splendid. Speeches at every change of plates. I wept tears of pathos. An address of five hundred names, adorned with water-color sketches of our different Legations, bearing a silver cover and a coat of arms, was presented by the Danish colony in Paris. It was all very touching and gratifying.
The famous beauty, Countess Castiglione, departed this world a few days ago. She was the woman most talked of in the sixties.
When I first saw her she was already passée. There is nothing that has not been said about her, but of this I know absolutely very little. She used to live in Passy, and was called "La recluse du passé." She was so extraordinarily dressed and always created a sensation.
For the last thirty years no notice had been taken of her. I quote the Figaro:
"Countess Castiglione in her day was considered the most beautiful woman living. A classical beauty, but entirely without charm. For the last years she has lived, after having arrived at the age of eighty, in a dismal apartment in the Place Vendôme, friendless, forgotten, and neglected."
All her mirrors were covered with black stuff of some kind; she did not wish to see the sad relics of her beauty.
At eleven o'clock every evening she took a walk with her maid around the Place Vendôme. She stayed in bed all day, never rising till twilight, and receiving no one but one or two old admirers who were faithful to the end.
Her things (haillons they were called in official language) were sold at auction—piles of old ball-shoes, head-gear, gloves stiffened with moisture and age. Apparently, she never gave anything away, but hoarded her treasures, which after her death were swept in corners and smelled of mold and damp.
We are named to Berlin. I am very sorry to leave Paris; I was getting quite accustomed to its little ways. Johan went to the Elysées to present his lettres de rappel. It seems only yesterday he went to present his lettres de créance. The President gave him the Grand Cordon of the Légion d'honneur, and to me the beautiful service de Sevres called "La Chasse," a surtout de table of five pieces. This is only given to royalty or Ambassadors. One cannot buy it, as it belongs to the French government. I heard that they hesitated between giving me that or a piece of Gobelin tapestry. I was glad they chose the surtout de table. It will be useful in two ways—as a subject of conversation and as a beautiful souvenir of our stay in Paris.