The big political dinners were always interesting. On one occasion we had a banquet on the 2d of December. My left-hand neighbour, a senator, said to me casually: "This room looks very different from what it did the last time I was in it." "Does it? I should have thought a big official dinner at the Foreign Office would have been precisely the same under any rÉgime." "A dinner perhaps, but on that occasion we were not precisely dining. I and a number of my friends had just been arrested, and we were waiting here in this room strictly guarded, until it was decided what should be done with us." Then I remembered that it was the 2d of December, the anniversary of Louis NapolÉon's coup d'État. He said they were quite unprepared for it, in spite of warnings. He was sent out of the country for a little while, but I don't think his exile was a very terrible one.

I got my first lesson in diplomatic politeness from Lord Lyons, then British ambassador in Paris. He was in Paris during the Franco-German War, knew everybody, and had a great position. He gave very handsome dinners, liked his guests to be punctual, was very punctual himself, always arrived on the stroke of eight when he dined with us. We had an Annamite mission to dine one night and had invited almost all the ambassadors and ministers to meet them. There had been a stormy sitting at the Chamber and W. was late. As soon as I was ready I went to his library and waited for him; I couldn't go down and receive a foreign mission without him. We were quite seven or eight minutes late and found all the company assembled (except the Annamites, who were waiting with their interpreter in another room to make their entry in proper style). As I shook hands with Lord Lyons (who was doyen of the diplomatic corps) he said to me: "Ah, Madame Waddington, I see the Republic is becoming very royal; you don't receive your guests any more, merely come into the room when all the company is assembled." He said it quite smilingly, but I understood very well, and of course we ought to have been there when the first guests arrived. He was very amiable all the same and told me a great many useful things—for instance, that I must never invite a cardinal and an ambassador together, as neither of them would yield the precedence and I would find myself in a very awkward position.

[Illustration: Lord Lyons.]

The Annamites were something awful to see. In their country all the men of a certain standing blacken their teeth, and I suppose the dye makes their teeth fall out, as they hadn't any apparently, and when they opened their mouths the black caverns one saw were terrifying. I had been warned, but notwithstanding it made a most disagreeable impression on me. They were very richly attired, particularly the first three, who were trÈs grands seigneurs in Annam,—heavily embroidered silk robes, feathers, and jewels, and when they didn't open their mouths they were rather a decorative group,—were tall, powerfully built men. They knew no French nor English—spoke through the interpreter. My intercourse with them was very limited. They were not near me at dinner, but afterward I tried to talk to them a little. They all stood in a group at one end of the room, flanked by an interpreter—the three principal chiefs well in front. I don't know what the interpreter said to them from me, probably embellished my very banal remarks with flowers of rhetoric, but they were very smiling, opening wide their black mouths and made me very low bows—evidently appreciated my intention and effort to be amiable.

They brought us presents, carpets, carved and inlaid mother-of-pearl boxes, cabinets, and some curious saddles, also gold-embroidered cushions and slippers. Some Arab horses were announced with great pomp from the Sultan's stables. I was rather interested in them, thought it would be amusing to drive a long-tailed Arab pony in a little cart in the morning. They were brought one morning to the Quai d'Orsay, and W. gave rendezvous to Comte de PontÉcoulant and some of the sporting men of the cabinet, in the courtyard. There were also several stablemen, all much interested in the idea of taming the fiery steeds of the desert. The first look was disappointing. They were thin, scraggy animals, apparently all legs and manes. Long tails they had, and small heads, but anything so tame and sluggish in their movements could hardly be imagined. One could scarcely get them to canter around the courtyard. We were all rather disgusted, as sometimes one sees pretty little Arab horses in Paris. I don't know what became of them; I fancy they were sent to the cavalry stables.

Our first great function that winter was the service at the Madeleine for the King of Italy, Victor Emmanuel, who died suddenly in the beginning of January, 1878. France sent a special mission to the funeral—the old Marshal Canrobert, who took with him the marshal's son, Fabrice de MacMahon. The Church of the Madeleine was filled with people of all kinds—the diplomatic corps in uniform, a very large representation of senators and deputies. There was a slight hesitation among some of the Left—who were ardent sympathisers with young Italy—but who didn't care to compromise themselves by taking part in a religious ceremony. However, as a rule they went. Some of the ladies of the Right were rather put out at having to go in deep mourning to the service. I said to one of them: "But you are not correct; you have a black dress certainly, but I don't think pearl-grey gloves are proper for such an occasion." "Oh, they express quite sufficiently the grief I feel on this occasion."

It was curious that the King should have gone before the old Pope, who had been failing for some time. Every day we expected to hear of his death. There were many speculations over the new King of Italy, the Prince Humbert of our day. As we had lived so many years in Rome, I was often asked what he was like, but I really had no opinion. One saw him very little. I remember one day in the hunting-field he got a nasty fall. His horse put his foot in a hole and fell with him. It looked a bad accident, as if the horse were going to roll over on him. I, with one of my friends, was near, and seeing an accident (I didn't know who it was) naturally stopped to see if our groom could do anything, but an officer rode hurriedly up and begged us to go on, that the Prince would be very much annoyed if any one, particularly a woman, should notice his fall. I saw him later in the day, looking all right on another horse, and no one made any allusion to the accident.

About a month after Victor Emmanuel's death the old Pope died, the 8th of February, 1878, quite suddenly at the end. He was buried of course in Rome, and it was very difficult to arrange for his funeral in the Rome of the King of Italy. However, he did lie in state at St. Peter's, the noble garde in their splendid uniforms standing close around the catafalque—long lines of Italian soldiers, the bersaglieri with their waving plumes, on each side of the great aisle. There was a magnificent service for him at Notre Dame. The Chambers raised their sitting as a mark of respect to the head of the church, and again there was a great attendance at the cathedral. There were many discussions in the monde (society not official) "as to whether one should wear mourning for the Saint PÈre." I believe the correct thing is not to wear mourning, but almost all the ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain went about in black garments for some time. One of my friends put it rather graphically: "Si on a un ruban rose dans les cheveux on a tout de suite l'air d'Être la maÎtresse de Rochefort."

All Europe was engrossed with the question of the Pope's successor. Intrigues and undercurrents were going on hard in Rome, and the issue of the conclave was impatiently awaited. No one could predict any result. The election of Cardinal Pecci, future Leo XIII, seemed satisfactory, at least in the beginning.

My winter passed pleasantly enough; I began to feel more at home in my new quarters, and saw many interesting people of all kinds. Every now and then there would be a very lively debate in the Parliament. W. would come home very late, saying things couldn't go on like that, and we would surely be out of office in a few weeks. We always kept our house in the rue Dumont d'Urville, and I went over every week, often thinking that in a few days we should be back there again.

One of my great trials was a reception day. W. thought I ought to have one, so every Friday I was at home from three until six, and very long afternoons they were. I insisted upon having a tea-table, which was a novelty in those days, but it broke the stiff semicircle of red and gold armchairs carefully arranged at one end of the room. Very few men took tea. It was rather amusing to see some of the deputies who didn't exactly like to refuse a cup of tea offered to them by the minister's wife, holding the cup and saucer most carefully in their hands, making a pretence of sipping the tea and replacing it hastily on the table as soon as it was possible. I had of course a great many people of different nationalities, who generally didn't know each other. The ambassadresses and ministers' wives sat on each side of my sofa—the smaller people lower down. They were all announced, my huissier, GÉrard, doing it very well, opening the big doors and roaring out the names. Sometimes, at the end of the day, some of my own friends or some of the young men from the chancery would come in, and that would cheer me up a little. There was no conversation, merely an exchange of formal phrases, but I had some funny experiences.

One day I had several ladies whom I didn't know at all, wives of deputies, or small functionaries at some of the ministries. One of my friends, Comtesse de B., was starting for Italy and Rome for the first time. She had come to ask me all sorts of questions about clothes, hotels, people to see, etc. When she went away in a whirl of preparations and addresses, I turned to one of my neighbours, saying: "Je crois qu'on est trÈs bien À l'HÔtel de Londres À Rome," quite an insignificant and inoffensive remark—merely to say something. She replied haughtily: "Je n'en sais rien, Madame; je n'ai jamais quittÉ Paris et je m'en vante." I was so astonished that I had nothing to say, but was afterward sorry that I had not continued the conversation and asked her why she was so especially proud of never having left Paris. Travelling is usually supposed to enlarge one's ideas. Her answer might have been interesting. W. wouldn't believe it when I told him, but I said I couldn't really have invented it. I used to go into his cabinet at the end of the day always, when he was alone with PontÉcoulant, and tell them all my experiences which W. forbid me to mention anywhere else. I had a good many surprises, but soon learned never to be astonished and to take everything as a matter of course.

The great interest of the summer was the Exposition Universelle which was to take place at the TrocadÉro, the new building which had been built on the Champ de Mars. The opening was announced for the 1st of May and was to be performed with great pomp by the marshal. All Europe was represented except Germany, and almost all the great powers were sending princes to represent their country. We went often to see how the works were getting on, and I must say it didn't look as if it could possibly be ready for the 1st of May. There were armies of workmen in every direction and carts and camions loaded with cases making their way with difficulty through the mud. Occasionally a light case or bale would fall off, and quantities of small boys who seemed always on the spot would precipitate themselves, tumbling over each other to pick up what fell, and there would be protestations and explanations in every language under the sun. It was a motley, picturesque crowd—the costumes and uniforms making so much colour in the midst of the very ordinary dark clothes the civilised Western world affects. I felt sorry for the Orientals and people from milder climes—they looked so miserably cold and wretched shivering under the very fresh April breezes that swept over the great plain of the Champ de Mars. The machines, particularly the American ones, attracted great attention. There was always a crowd waiting when some of the large pieces were swung down into their places by enormous pulleys.

The opening ceremony was very brilliant. Happily it was a beautiful warm day, as all the guests invited by the marshal and the Government were seated on a platform outside the TrocadÉro building. All the diplomatic corps, foreign royalties, and commissioners of the different nations who were taking part in the exposition were invited. The view was lovely as we looked down from our seats. The great enclosure was packed with people. All the pavilions looked very gay with bright-coloured walls and turrets, and there were flags, palms, flowers, and fountains everywhere—the Seine running through the middle with fanciful bridges and boats. There was a curious collection of people in the tribunes. The invitations had not been very easy to make. There were three Spanish sovereigns, Queen Isabella, her husband, Don FranÇois d'Assizes, and the Duc d'Aosta (King AmadÉe), who had reigned a few stormy months in Spain. He had come to represent Italy at the exposition. The marshal was rather preoccupied with his Spanish royalties. He had a reception in the evening, to which all were invited, and thought it would be wise to take certain precautions, so he sent one of his aides-de-camp to Queen Isabella to say that he hoped to have the honour of seeing her in the evening at the ElysÉe, but he thought it right to tell her that she might perhaps have some disagreeable meetings. She replied: "Si c'est mon mari de qui vous parlez, cela m'est tout À fait Égal; si c'est le Duc d'Aosta, je serai ravie de le voir."

She came to the reception, but her husband was already gone. The Due d'Aosta was still there, and she walked straight up to him and kissed him on both cheeks, not an easy thing to do, for the duke was not at all the type of the gay lady's man—very much the reverse. He looked a soldier (like all the princes of the house of Savoy) and at the same time a monk. One could easily imagine him a crusader in plumed helmet and breastplate, supporting any privation or fatigue without a murmur. He was very shy (one saw it was an effort for him every time that any one was brought up to him and he had to make polite phrases), not in the least mondain, but simple, charming when one talked to him.

I saw him often afterward, as he represented his brother, King Humbert, on various official occasions when I too was present—the coronation of the Emperor Alexander of Russia, the Jubilee of Queen Victoria. He was always a striking figure, didn't look as if he belonged to our modern world at all. The marshal had a series of dinners and receptions which were most brilliant. There was almost always music or theatricals, with the best artists in Paris. The ComÉdie FranÇaise was much appreciated. Their style is so finished and sure. They played just as well at one end of a drawing-room, with a rampe of flowers only separating them from the public, as in their own theatre with all the help of scenery, acoustics, and distance. In a drawing-room naturally the audience is much nearer.

I remember one charming party at the ElysÉe for the Austrian crown prince, the unfortunate Archduke Rudolph. All the stars of the ThÉÂtre FranÇais were playing—Croizette, Reichemberg, Delaunay, Coquelin. The prince seemed to enjoy himself. He was very good-looking, with a slight, elegant figure and charming smile—didn't look like a man whose life would end so tragically. When I saw him some years later in London, he was changed, looked older, had lost his gaiety, was evidently bored with the official entertaining, and used to escape from all the dinners and receptions as soon as he could.

The late King Edward (then Prince of Wales) won golden opinions always. There was certainly something in his personality which had an enormous attraction for Parisians. He always seemed to enjoy life, never looked bored, was unfailingly courteous and interested in the people he was talking to. It was a joy to the French people to see him at some of the small theatres, amusing himself and understanding all the sous-entendus and argot quite as well as they did. It would almost seem as if what some one said were true, that he reminded them of their beloved Henri IV, who still lives in the heart of the nation.

His brother-in-law, the Prince of Denmark, was also most amiable. We met him often walking about the streets with one or two of his gentlemen, and looking in at the windows like an ordinary provincial. He was tall, with a slight, youthful figure, and was always recognised. It was a great satisfaction and pride to Parisians to have so many royalties and distinguished people among them again.

Those two months of May and June gave back to Paris the animation and gaiety of the last days of the Empire. There were many handsome carriages on the Champs-ElysÉes, filled with pretty, well-dressed women, and the opera and all the theatres were packed. Paris was illuminated the night of the opening of the exposition, the whole city, not merely the Champs-ElysÉes and boulevards. As we drove across the bridge on our way home from the reception at the ElysÉe, it was a beautiful sight—the streets full of people waiting to see the foreign royalties pass, and the view up and down the Seine, with the lights from the high buildings reflected in the water—like fairy-land.

[Illustration: His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales, in 1876.
From a photograph by Lock & Whitfield, London.]

The dinners and receptions at the ElysÉe and at all the ministries those first weeks of the exposition were interesting but so fatiguing. Happily there were not many lunches nor day entertainments. I used to get a good drive every afternoon in the open carriage with mother and baby, and that kept me alive. Occasionally (not often) W. had a man's dinner, and then I could go with some of my friends and dine at the exposition, which was very amusing—such a curious collection of people. The rue des Nations was like a gigantic fair. We met all our friends, and heard every language under the sun. Among other distinguished foreign guests that year we had President and Mrs. Grant, who were received everywhere in Europe (England giving the example) like royalties. When they dined with us at the Quai d'Orsay W. and I went to the top of the great staircase to meet them, exactly as we did for the Prince and Princess of Wales.

It seems funny to me when I think of the very unceremonious manner in which not only ex-presidents but actual presidents were treated in America when I was a child. I remember quite well seeing a president (I have forgotten which one now) come into the big drawing-room at the old Cozzen's Hotel at West Point, with two or three gentlemen with him. There was a certain number of people in the room and nobody moved, or dreamt of getting up. However, the Grants were very simple—accepted all the honours shown to them without a pose of any kind. The marshal gave them a big dinner at the ElysÉe. We arrived a little late (we always did) and found a large party assembled. The Grants came in just after us.

The MarÉchale said to me: "The Chinese ambassador will take you to dinner, Madame Waddington. He is an interesting, clever man, knows England and the English well—speaks English remarkably well." Just before dinner was announced the ambassador was brought up to me. He was a striking-looking man, tall, broad-shouldered, dignified, very gorgeously attired in light-blue satin, embroidered in bright-coloured flowers and gold and silver designs, and a splendid yellow bird of paradise in his cap. He didn't come quite up to me, made me a low bow from a certain distance, and then fell back into a group of smaller satellites, all very splendidly dressed. When dinner was announced the first couples filed off—the marshal with Mrs. Grant and the MarÉchale with President Grant and W. with his lady. There was a pause; I should have gone next, but my ambassador wasn't forthcoming. I looked and wondered. All the aides-de-camp were making frantic signals to me to go on, and the whole cortÈge was stopped. I really didn't know what to do—I felt rather foolish. Presently the ambassador appeared—didn't offer me his arm, but again made me a low bow, which I returned and moved a few steps forward. He advanced too and we made a stately progress to the dining-room side by side. I heard afterward the explanation. It seemed that in those days (things have changed now I fancy) no Chinese of rank would touch any woman who didn't belong to him, and the ambassador would have thought himself dishonoured (as well as me) if he had offered me his arm. The dinner was anything but banal.

When we finally got to the table I found myself on the marshal's left—Mrs. Grant was on his right. The marshal neither spoke nor understood English. Mrs. Grant spoke no French, so the conversation didn't seem likely to be very animated. After a few moments Mrs. Grant naturally wished to say something to her host and she addressed him in English. "Mr. President, I am so happy to be in your beautiful country," then the marshal to me: "Madame Waddington je vous en prie, dites À Madame Grant que je ne puis pas rÉpondre; je ne comprends pas l'anglais; je ne puis pas parler avec elle." "Mrs. Grant, the marshal begs me to say to you that he regrets not being able to talk with you, but unfortunately he does not understand English." Then there was a pause and Mrs. Grant began again: "What a beautiful palace, Mr. President. It must be delightful with that charming garden." Again the marshal to me: "Mais je vous en prie Madame, dites À Madame Grant que je ne puis pas causer avec elle. Il ne faut pas qu'elle me parle, je ne comprends pas." "Mrs. Grant, the marshal is distressed that he cannot talk to you, but he really does not understand any English." It was very trying for Mrs. Grant. Happily her other neighbour knew a little English and she could talk to him, but all through dinner, at intervals, she began again at the marshal.

After a few moments I turned my attention to my ambassador. I had been looking at him furtively while I was interpreting for the marshal and Mrs. Grant. I saw that he took everything that was offered to him—dishes, wines, sauces—but he never attacked anything without waiting to see what his neighbours did, when and how they used their knives and forks,—then did exactly as they did,—never made a mistake. I saw he was looking at the flowers on the table, which were very well arranged, so I said to him, speaking very slowly and distinctly, as one does to a child or a deaf person: "Have you pretty flowers in your country?" He replied promptly: "Yes, yes, very hot, very cold, very hot, very cold." I was a little disconcerted, but thought I had perhaps spoken indistinctly, and after a little while I made another attempt: "How much the uniforms add to the brilliancy of the fÊte, and the Chinese dress is particularly striking and handsome," but to that he made such a perfectly unintelligible answer that I refrained from any further conversation and merely smiled at him from time to time, which he always acknowledged with a little bow.

We went back to the salons in the same way, side by side, and when the men had gone into one of the other rooms to talk and smoke, I went to speak to the MarÉchale, who said to me: "I am sure you had a delightful dinner, Madame Waddington. The Chinese ambassador is such a clever man, has travelled a great deal, and speaks such wonderful English." "Wonderful indeed, Madame la MarÉchale," and then I repeated our conversation, which she could hardly believe, and which amused her very much. She spoke English as well as I did.

The Grants were very much entertained during their stay in Paris, and we met them nearly every night. W. liked the general very much and found him quite talkative when he was alone with him. At the big dinners he was of course at a disadvantage, neither speaking nor understanding a word of French. W. acted as interpreter and found that very fatiguing. There is so much repartee and sous-entendu in all French conversation that even foreigners who know the language well find it sometimes difficult to follow everything, and to translate quickly enough to keep one au courant is almost impossible. When they could they drifted into English, and W. said he was most interesting—speaking of the war and all the North had done, without ever putting himself forward.

We had both of us often to act as interpreters with French and Anglo-Saxons, neither understanding the other's language, and always found it difficult. I remember a dinner at Sandringham some years ago when W. was at the embassy. The Prince of Wales (late King Edward) asked me to sit next to a foreign ambassador who understood not one word of English. The dinner was exclusively English—a great many clever men—the master of Trinity College, Cambridge (asked especially to meet my husband, who graduated from Trinity College), Lord Goschen, James Knowles of the Nineteenth Century, Froude, the historian, Sir Henry James, Lord Wolseley, etc. The talk was very animated, very witty. There were peals of laughter all around the table. My ambassador was very fidgety and nervous, appealing to me all the time, but by the time I had laboriously condensed and translated some of the remarks, they were talking of something quite different, and I am afraid he had very hazy ideas as to what they were all saying.

We saw, naturally, all the distinguished strangers who passed through Paris that year of 1878. Many of our colleagues in the diplomatic corps had played a great rÔle in their own country. Prince Orloff, the Russian ambassador, was one of our great friends. He gave us very good advice on one or two occasions. He was a distinguished-looking man—always wore a black patch over one eye—he had been wounded in the Crimea. He spoke English as well as I did and was a charming talker. General Cialdini was at the Italian embassy. He was more of a soldier than a statesman—had contributed very successfully to the formation of "United Italy" and the suppression of the Pope's temporal power, and was naturally not exactly persona grata to the Catholics in France. Prince and Princess Hohenlohe had succeeded Arnim at the German embassy. Their beginnings were difficult, as their predecessor had done nothing to make the Germans popular in France, but their strong personality, tact, and understanding of the very delicate position helped them enormously. They were Catholics (the Princess born a Russian—her brother, Prince Wittgenstein, military attachÉ at the Russian embassy) and very big people in their own country, so absolutely sure of themselves and their position that it was very difficult to slight them in any way. They would never have perceived it unless some extraordinary rudeness were shown. The Princess was very striking-looking, tall, with a good figure, and splendid jewels. When she was in full dress for a ball, or official reception, she wore three necklaces, one on top of the other, and a big handsome, high tiara, which added to her height. She was the only lady of the diplomatic corps whom Madame GrÉvy ever recognised in the first weeks of her husband's presidency. Madame Grevy was thrown suddenly not very young into such an absolutely new milieu, that she was quite bewildered and couldn't be expected to recognise half the women of the diplomatic corps, but the German ambassadress impressed her and she knew her always. The princess was not very mondaine, didn't care about society and life in a city—preferred the country, with riding and shooting and any sort of sport.

We had a very handsome dinner at the German embassy the winter of 1878—given to the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon. After dinner, with coffee, a bear made its appearance in the drawing-room, a "baby bear" they said, but I didn't think it looked very small. The princess patted it, and talked to it just as if it were a dog, and I must say the little animal was perfectly quiet, and kept close to her. I think the lights and the quantity of people frightened it. It growled once or twice, and we all had a feeling of relief when it was taken away. I asked the MarÉchale afterward if she were afraid. "Oui, j'avais trÈs peur, mais je ne voulais pas le montrer devant ces allemands." (Yes, I was very frightened, but I would not show it before those Germans.) They had eventually to send the bear away, back to Germany. It grew wilder as it grew older, and became quite unmanageable—they couldn't keep it in the embassy.

Hohenlohe was always pleasant and easy. I think he had a real sympathy for France and did his best on various delicate occasions. The year of the exposition (1878) we dined out every night and almost always with the same people. Hohenlohe often fell to me. He took me in to dinner ten times in succession. The eleventh time we were each of us in despair as we filed out together, so I said to him: "Don't let us even pretend to talk; you can talk to your other neighbour and I will to mine." However, we did talk chiffons, curiously enough. I had waited for a dress, which only came home at the last moment, and when I put it on the corsage was so tight I could hardly bear it. It was too late to change, and I had nothing else ready, so most uncomfortable I started for my dinner. I didn't dare to eat anything, hardly dared move, which Hohenlohe remarked, after seeing three or four dishes pass me untouched, and said to me: "I am afraid you are ill; you are eating nothing." "No, not at all, only very uncomfortable"—and then I explained the situation to him—that my dress was so tight I could neither move nor eat. He was most indignant—"How could women be so foolish—why did we want to have abnormally small waists and be slaves to our dressmakers?—men didn't like made-up figures." "Oh, yes, they do; all men admire a slight, graceful figure." "Yes, when it is natural, but no man understands nor cares about a fashionably dressed woman—women dress for each other" (which is perfectly true).

[Illustration: Prince Hohenlohe. After the painting by F.E. Laszlo.]

However, he was destined to see other ladies very careful about their figures. The late Empress of Austria, who was a fine rider, spent some time one spring in Paris, and rode every morning in the Bois. She was very handsome, with a beautiful figure, had handsome horses and attracted great attention. Prince Hohenlohe often rode with her. I was riding with a friend one morning when we saw handsome horses waiting at the mounting-block, just inside the gates. We divined they were the Empress's horses and waited to see her mount. She arrived in a coupÉ, her maid with her, and mounted her horse from the block. The body of her habit was open. When she was settled in her saddle, the maid stepped up on the block and buttoned her habit, which I must say fitted beautifully—as if she were melted into it.

The official receptions were interesting that year, as one still saw a few costumes. The Chinese, Japanese, Persians, Greeks, and Roumanians wore their national dress—and much better they look in them than in the ordinary dress coat and white tie of our men. The Greek dress was very striking, a full white skirt with high embroidered belt, but it was only becoming when the wearer was young, with a good figure. I remember a pretty Roumanian woman with a white veil spangled with gold, most effective. Now every one wears the ordinary European dress except the Chinese, who still keep their costume. One could hardly imagine a Chinese in a frock coat and tall hat. What would he do with his pigtail?

The entertainments went on pretty well that year until August, almost all the embassies and ministries receiving. Queen Isabella of Spain was then living in the big house in the Avenue KlÉber, called the "Palais d'Espagne" (now the Hotel Majestic). We used to meet her often driving in the Bois. She was a big, stout, rather red-faced woman, didn't make much effect in a carriage in ordinary street dress, but in her palace, when she received or gave an audience, she was a very royal lady. I asked for an audience soon after W. was named to the Foreign Office. We knew one of her chamberlains very well, Duc de M., and he arranged it for me. I arrived at the palace on the appointed day a little before four (the audience was for four). The big gates were open, a tall porter dressed in red and gold lace and buttons, and a staff in his hand, was waiting—two or three men in black, and four or five footmen in red liveries and powder, at the door and in the hall. I was shown at once to a small room on the ground floor, where four or five ladies, all Spanish and all fat, were waiting. In a few minutes the duke appeared. We talked a little (he looking at me to see if I had taken off my veil and my right-hand glove) and then a man in black appeared at the door, making a low bow and saying something in Spanish. The duke said would I come, Her Majesty was ready to receive me. We passed through several salons where there were footmen and pages (no ladies) until we came to a very large one quite at the other end of the palace. The big doors were open, and at the far end I saw the Queen standing, a stately figure (enormous), dressed in a long black velvet dress, a high diamond tiara on her head, from which hung a black lace veil, a fan in her hand (I suppose no Spanish woman of any station ever parts with her fan) and a splendid string of pearls. I made my curtsey on the threshold, the chamberlain named me with the usual formula: "I have the honour to present to Your Majesty, Madame Waddington, the wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs," then backed himself out of the room, and I proceeded down the long room to the Queen. She didn't move, let me make my two curtseys, one in the middle of the room, one when I came close up to her—and then shook hands. We remained standing a few minutes and then she sat down on a sofa (not a very small one) which she quite filled, and motioned me to take an armchair on one side. She was very amiable, had a charming smile, spoke French very well but with a strong Spanish accent. She said she was very glad to see my husband at the Foreign Office, and hoped he would stay long enough to do some real work—said she was very fond of France, loved driving in the streets of Paris, there was always so much to see and the people looked gay. She was very fond of the theatres, particularly the smaller ones, liked the real Parisian wit and gaiety better than the measured phrase and trained diction of the FranÇais and the OdÉon. She spoke most warmly of Marshal MacMahon, hoped that he would remain President of the Republic as long as the Republicans would let him, was afraid they would make his position impossible—but that the younger generation always wanted reforms and changes. I said I thought that was the way of the world everywhere, in families as well as nations—children could not be expected to see with the eyes of their parents. Then we talked about the exposition—she said the Spanish show was very good—told me to look at the tapestries and embroideries, which were quite wonderful—gold and silver threads worked in with the tapestries. The interview was pleasant and easy. When I took leave, she let me back down the whole length of the room, not half turning away as so many princesses do after the first few steps, so as to curtail that very inconvenient exit. However, a day dress is never so long and cumbersome as an evening dress with a train.

The chamberlain was waiting just outside the door, also two ladies in waiting, just as fat as the Queen. Certainly the mise en scÈne was very effective. The number of servants in red liveries, the solitary standing figure at the end of the long enfilade of rooms, the high diamond comb and long veil, quite transformed the very stout, red-faced lady whom I used to meet often walking in the Bois.

We dined once or twice at the palace, always a very handsome dinner. One for the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon was beautifully done—all the footmen, dozens, in gala liveries, red and yellow, the maÎtre d'hÔtel in very dark blue with gold epaulettes and aiguillettes. The table was covered with red and yellow flowers and splendid gold plate, and a very good orchestra of guitars and mandolins played all through dinner, the musicians singing sometimes when they played a popular song. We were all assembled in one of the large rooms waiting for the Queen to appear. As soon as the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon were announced, she came in, meeting them at the door, making a circle afterward, and shaking hands with all the ladies.

Lord Lyons gave a beautiful ball at the embassy that season. The hotel of the British embassy is one of the best in Paris—fine reception-rooms opening on a very large garden, and a large courtyard and side exit—so there was no confusion of carriages. He had need of all his room—Paris was crowded with English. Besides all the exposition people, there were many tourists and well-known English people, all expecting to be entertained at the embassy. All the world was there. The Prince and Princess of Wales, the Marshal and Madame de MacMahon, the OrlÉans princes, Princesse Mathilde, the Faubourg St. Germain, the Government, and as many foreigners as the house could hold, as he invited a great many people, once his obligations, English and official, were satisfied. It was only at an embassy that such a gathering could take place, and it was amusing to see the people of all the different camps looking at each other.

There was a supper up-stairs for all the royalties before the cotillion. I was told that the Duc d'Aumale would take me to supper. I was very pleased (as we knew him very well and he was always charming to us) but much surprised, as the OrlÉans princes never remained for supper at any big official function. There would have been questions of place and precedence which would have been very difficult to settle. When the move was made for supper, things had to be changed, as the OrlÉans princes had gone home. The Crown Prince of Denmark took me. The supper-room was prettily arranged, two round tables—Lord Lyons with the Princesses of Wales and Denmark presiding at one—his niece, the Duchesse of Norfolk, at the other, with the Princes of Wales and Denmark. I sat between the Princes of Denmark and Sweden. Opposite me, next the Prince of Wales, sat a lady I didn't know. Every one else at the table did. She was very attractive-looking, with a charming smile and most animated manner. I asked the Prince of Denmark in a low voice, who she was—thought it must be one of the foreign princesses I hadn't yet met. The Prince of Wales heard my question, and immediately, with his charming tact and ease of manner, said to me: "You don't know the Princesse Mathilde; do let me have the pleasure of presenting you to her," naming me at once—in my official capacity, "wife of the Minister of Foreign Affairs." The princess was very gracious and smiling, and we talked about all sorts of things—some of her musical protÉgÉes, who were also mine. She asked me if I liked living at the ministry, Quai d'Orsay; she remembered it as such a beautiful house. When the party broke up, she shook hands, said she had not the pleasure of knowing M. Waddington, but would I thank him from her for what he had done for one of her friends. I tried to find W. after supper to present him to the princess, but he had already gone, didn't stay for the cotillion—the princess, too, went away immediately after supper. I met her once or twice afterward. She was always friendly, and we had little talks together. Her salon—she received once a week—was quite a centre—all the Bonapartists of course, the diplomatic corps, many strangers, and all the celebrities in literature and art.

With that exception I never saw nor talked with any member of that family until I had been some years a widow, when the Empress EugÉnie received me on her yacht at Cowes. When the news came of the awful tragedy of the Prince Imperial's death in Zululand, W. was Foreign Minister, and he had invited a large party, with music. W. instantly put off the party, said there was no question of politics or a Bonapartist prince—it was a Frenchman killed, fighting bravely in a foreign country. I always thought the Empress knew about it and appreciated his act, for during his embassy in London, though we never saw her, she constantly sent him word through mutual friends of little negotiations she knew about and thought might interest him, and always spoke very well of him as a "clear-headed, patriotic statesman." I should have liked to have seen her in her prime, when she must have been extraordinarily beautiful and graceful. When I did see her she was no longer young, but a stately, impressive figure, and had still the beautiful brow one sees in all her pictures. One of our friends, a very clever woman and great anti-Bonapartist, told us an amusing story of her little son. The child was sometimes in the drawing-room when his mother was receiving, and heard her and all her friends inveighing against the iniquities of the Imperial Court and the frivolity of the Empress. He saw the Empress walking one day in the Bois de Boulogne. She was attracted by the group of children, stopped and talked to them. The boy was delighted and said to his governess: "Elle est bien jolie, l'ImpÉratrice, mais il ne faut pas le dire À Maman." (The Empress is very pretty, but one must not say it to mother.)