The to-morrow of our good intentions, sometimes, it may be frequently, never dawns. On this particular to-morrow, according to Parisian custom, we were to be at home to our friends.
Our morning was devoted to the duties of the toilet and those of the ménage. There was a duett to be practiced for piano and harp by myself and Ella, who now played that graceful instrument with exquisite taste. She was also to accompany her mother on the harp, in the lovely romance and prayer from Rossini’s Otello, by particular request of the Maestro himself. Evelyn received well. Her salon was much frequented by artistes and men of letters; and a few charming female friends added greatly to the brilliancy of these réunions.
A thorough musician herself, she had a perfect horror of the usual style of amateur singing; and no one was permitted, at her house, to display their mediocrity at the expense of the nerves of the company.
Our apartment was situate in the Avenue Gabriel—to my taste, the most delightful location in Paris. Near, yet not actually in, the Champs Elysées, it combines cheerfulness and gaiety with privacy and retirement. Our apartment was au rez de chaussée (on the ground floor), all the rooms, as is usual in Paris, en suite. It had been furnished with remarkable taste by a Russian Princess, who, being suddenly recalled by the Czar, was glad to let her apartment to English ladies—on, to us, most advantageous terms. We were, therefore, lodged as few strangers may hope to be. The suite of rooms were now thrown open, and brilliantly lighted—all except Evelyn’s boudoir, which led into the conservatory, and in which reigned a subdued light, inviting to lovers or to those who prefer to muse in solitude and watch the crowd from afar. At present, all were congregated in the salon, around the fair hostess, who herself looked like a queen surrounded by her court.
“Ah! ma chère,” exclaimed a pretty vivacious little marquise, perfumed like a rose, as only a French woman can be—“your soirée is really charming—delicious—but pardon me, there are two things, or rather persons, wanting to make your réunion perfect.”
“Indeed,” replied Evelyn, smiling; “and pray, who may these be?”
“Nay, you must guess,” rejoined another fair lady of the party; “for, at present, those two persons are indispensable in the beau monde.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Evelyn, “you mean my dear friend Rossini?”
“Oh! no; we are all aware he is quite a hermit.”
“The Emperor, perhaps, and the peerless Castiglione?”