We visited, in company with these same doctors, the Pasteur Inst.i.tute, young M. Pasteur accompanying us. We began at the rooms where they examined hydrophobia in all its developments. Persons who have been bitten by any animal are kept under observation, and they have to go to the Inst.i.tute forty times before they are either cured or beyond suspicion. There are two large rooms adjoining each other, one for the patients and the other for the doctors. Every morning the unhappy men and women are received and cared for.

_May 15, 1898_.

My dear L.,--We have just come home from bidding our Crown Prince and Princess good-by at the station.

On Thursday Madame Faure and her daughter came to see me. On bidding them adieu I said I hoped the President had not forgotten the photograph of himself which he had promised me. Madame Faure answered, "_Vous l'aurez ce soir meme, chere Madame_." That very evening while we were dining with Count and Countess Cornet we heard that Felix Faure had suddenly died. To-day we learned how he had died. Not through the papers, but secretly, in an undertone and with a hushed voice.

I think that the French papers ought to take the prize in the art of keeping a secret. One could never imagine that a whole nation could hold its tongue so completely! There appeared no sensational articles, no details, and no comments on the President of the French Republic's departure from this world. Everything in the way of details was kept secret by the officials. In our country, and, in fact, in every other country, such discretion would have been impossible; the news in all its details would have been hawked about the streets in half an hour. Here was simply the news that Felix Faure had died.

A week later the President's funeral took place at Notre Dame.

Seats were reserved for the _Corps Diplomatique_ by the side of the immense catafalque which stood in the center of the cathedral.

Huge torches were burning around it. After every one was seated, in came the four officers sent by the German Emperor. Four giants!

The observed of all observers! Their presence did not pa.s.s unnoticed, as you may imagine. They seemed more as if they were at a parade than at a funeral. The music was splendid; The famous organist Guilmant was at the organ, and did "his best." I believe Notre Dame never heard finer organ-playing. I never did.

The streets were full of troops; the large open square in front of the cathedral was lined with a double row of soldiers. The diplomats followed on foot in the procession from Notre Dame to Pere la Chaise, traversing the whole of Paris.

PARIS, _1899_.

My dear Sister,--You may think what a joy it is to me to have my dear friend Mrs. Bigelow Lawrence staying with me here. Every day we go to some museums and do a little sight-seeing. She is interested in everything.

The new President (Loubet) gave us for one night the Presidential _loge_ at the Grand Opera, and I cannot tell you how delighted we were to hear Wagner's "Meistersinger" given in French, and marvelously executed. All the best singers took part. The orchestra was magnificent beyond words. The artists played with a delicacy and a _culte_ not even surpa.s.sed at Bayreuth. In the _entr'actes_ we reviewed--seated in the luxurious, s.p.a.cious _loge_ where the huge sofas and the _fauteuils_ offered their hospitable arms--our impressions, which were ultra-enthusiastic. Near us was Madame Cosima Wagner, whom one of our party went to see. She expressed the greatest pleasure at the performance, not concealing her surprise that a representation in French and in France could be so perfect. If that most difficult of ladies was satisfied, imagine how satisfied _we_ must have been!

[Ill.u.s.tration: FeLIX FAURE WHEN PRESIDENT OF FRANCE From a photograph taken shortly before his sudden death and sent by his widow to Madame de Hegermann-Lindencrone.]

As a _bonne bouche_ we took Mrs. Lawrence to Madame Carnot's evening reception. These receptions are not gay. They might be called standing-_soirees_, as no one ever sits down. The guests move in a procession through the _salons_, the last one of which is rather a melancholy one. In the middle of it is a square piece of marble lying flat on the floor, and a quant.i.ty of withered wreaths and faded ribbons piled up on it. They are the souvenirs of the late President's funeral. Madame Carnot, a most charming lady, wears a long black veil as in the first days of her widowhood, and receives in a widowed-Empress manner.

Mrs. Lawrence's visit is the incentive for active service in the army of musicians. The President often sends me the _ci-devant_ Imperial _loge_ at the Conservatoire. In old times I used to think how splendid it would be to sit here! Now I have the twelve seats to dispose of--six large gilded Empire _fauteuils_ in front, and six small ones behind. There is always a bright coal-fire in the _salon_ adjoining, but it does not take away the damp coldness from a room where a ray of light or a breath of fresh air never can penetrate. The concerts seem exactly the same as they used to be; they do not appear to have changed either in their _repertoires_ or in their audiences. Beethoven, Haydn, and Bach are still the fashion, and the old _habitues_ still bob their heads in rhythmical measure.

The chorus of men and women look precisely as they did when dear old Auber was _directeur_ (twenty-five years ago). I think that they must be the same. The sopranos are still dressed in white, and the contraltos in black, indicative of their voices' color.

Pugno with his pudgy hands played the Concerto of Mozart in his masterful manner. One wonders how he can have any command over the keyboard, he has such short arms and such a protruding stomach.

As a modern innovation Pierno's "_Creation_" was given, beautifully executed, but received only with toleration.

Just to go up the familiar worn staircase brought the old scenes vividly before me. Then it was a great piece of luck to obtain a seat within its sacred walls, and such an event to go to a concert that I can still remember my sensations.

PARIS, _1899_.

My dear Sister,--You ask me to tell you about the "Dreyfus affair."

It is a lengthy tale, and such a tissue of lies and intrigue that common sense wonders if the impossible cannot be possible, if wrong cannot be right. You probably know more of the details of the case than I do, if you have followed it from the beginning, as I am just beginning to follow.

I a.s.sure you it is as much as your life is worth to speak about it; and, as for bringing people together or inviting them to dinner, you must first find out if they are Dreyfusards or anti-Dreyfusards, otherwise you risk your crockery. The other day I was talking to an old gentleman who seemed very level-headed on the start. Perhaps I might learn something! I ventured to say, "Do tell me the real facts about the Dreyfus affair." Had I told him that he was sitting on a lighted bomb the effect on him could not have been more startling.

"Do you know that he is the greatest traitor that has ever lived? He gave the _bordereau_ to the German government."

"What is a _bordereau_?" I asked.

He seemed astonished that I did not know what a _bordereau_ was. "It is a list of secret doc.u.ments. He gave this three years ago."

"Who discovered it?" I inquired.

"It was found in the paper-basket of the German Emba.s.sy, and Monsieur Paty du Clam knew about it."

"And then?"

"Well, then he was arrested and brought before the _conseil de guerre_, found guilty, and degraded before the army."

"Did he confess that he wrote the _bordereau_?"

"No! On the contrary, he swore he had not, but the generals decided that he had. So he _must_ have!"

"The generals may have been mistaken," I said. "Such things have happened."

"Oh no. It is impossible that these officers could have been mistaken."

"What did he say when he was accused?" I continued.

"I hardly think that he was told of what he was accused."

"Do you mean to say," I cried, "that he did not know that he was suspected of high treason?"

"He must have known that he wrote the _bordereau_," he replied.

"_If_ he wrote it," I interrupted. "Was he not condemned only on his handwriting?"

"Yes," replied my elderly friend, whose head I had thought level. "But to discover the truth one had to resort to all sort of ruses in order to convict him and convince the public."

"Why did the generals want to condemn him, if he was not guilty?" I asked.

"They had to condemn some one," said my friend, who was beginning to be dreadfully bored. "The generals found Dreyfus guilty, therefore Dreyfus was guilty without doubt."

"Do you think that if an injustice has been done it will create a great indignation in other countries and will affect the coming Exposition?" I inquired.

"Ah," said my wise friend, "_that_ is another thing. I think myself that it would be prudent to do something toward revising the judgment; everything ought to be done to make the Exposition a success."

And there the matter rested.

I doubt if his friendship stood this test. Any one who takes Dreyfus's defense is looked upon as an enemy in the camp. I devour the papers.

_Le Matin_ seems to be the only unprejudiced one. J. reads the others, but I have no patience with all their cooked-up and melodramatic stories.

On the 11th of September the King of Siam gave the diplomats an opportunity to meet him at a reception in the new and beautiful Siamese Legation.

The King is good-looking, and tall for a Siamese. He talked English perfectly and showed the greatest interest in everything he had seen.

When he left Paris a few days later he bought three hundred dozen pairs of silk stockings for his three hundred wives. Quite a sum for the royal budget! One can't imagine bigamy going much further than that, can one? And he is only forty-two years old!