This news disappointed me and even annoyed me personally. I had been told that all London was quivering with excitement at the very idea of the visit of the Comédie Française, and I had found London extremely indifferent. The crowd was large and very compact, but cold.
“Why have the Prince and Princess gone away to-day?” I asked M. Mayer.
“Well, because they had decided beforehand about this visit to Paris,” he replied.
“Oh, then they won’t be here for our first night?” I continued.
“No, the Prince has taken a box for the season for which he has paid four hundred pounds, but it will be used by the Duke of Connaught.”
I was in despair. I don’t know why, but I certainly was in despair, as I felt that everything was going wrong.
A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the house—77, Chester Square—I did not want to get out of my carriage.
The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me.
“Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I asked my manservant.
“Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are from Paris, from madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it, I read the words: “Welcome!—Henry Irving.”