The servants told us that since eight o’clock there had been a crowd at the doors, which they opened a little before nine, and a flood of people poured in.  The salon reserve had a blue ribbon stretched across the entrance from door to door, and was guarded by huissiers, old hands who knew everybody in the diplomatic and official world, and would not let any one in who hadn’t a right to penetrate into the charmed circle (which of course became the one room where every one wanted to go).  There were, too, one or two members of W.’s cabinet always stationed near the doors to see that instructions were obeyed.

I don’t think the salon reserve exists any more—­the blue ribbon certainly not.  The rising flood of democracy and equality wouldn’t submit to any such barrier.  I remember quite well one beautiful woman standing for some time just the wrong side of the ribbon.  She was so beautiful that every one remarked her, but she had no official rank or claim of any kind to enter the salon reserve—­no one knew her, though every one was asking who she was.  She finally made her entree into the room on the arm of one of the members of the diplomatic corps, a young secretary, one of her friends, who could not refuse her what she wanted so much.  She was certainly the handsomest woman in the room with the exception of the actual Queen Alexandra, who was always the most beautiful and distinguished wherever she was.

The royalties didn’t dance much.  We had the regular quadrille d’honneur with the Princes and Princesses of Wales, Denmark, Sweden, Countess of Flanders, and others.  None of the French princes came to the ball.  There was a great crowd, but as the distinguished guests remained all the time in the salon reserve, they were not inconvenienced by it.  Just before supper, which was served at little round tables in a room opening out of the rotonde, the late King of Denmark, then Crown Prince, brother of the Princess of Wales, told me he would like to go up-stairs and see all the rooms; he had always heard that the Palais d’Orsay was a beautiful house.  We made a difficult but stately progress through the rooms.  The staircase was a pretty sight, covered with a red carpet, tapestries on the walls, and quantities of pretty women of all nationalities grouped on the steps.  We walked through the rooms, where there were just as many people as there were down-stairs, an orchestra, supper-room, people dancing—­just like another party going on.  We halted a few minutes in my petit salon at the end of the long suite of rooms.  It looked quite charming, with the blue brocade walls and quantities of pink roses standing in high glass vases.  I suggested taking the elevator to go down, but the prince preferred walking (so did I).  It was even more difficult getting through the crowd down-stairs—­we had the whole length of the house to cross.  Several women stood on chairs as we passed along, in the hope of seeing one of the princesses, but they had wisely remained in the salon reserve, and were afraid to venture into the crowd.