Her first question was, “Did the Queen have on the sleeves?”

“Certainly,” I answered, curtly.

January, 1891.

Dear L.,—­King Oscar is a king after one’s ideas of what a king ought to be.  He looks the king every inch of him, and that is saying a good deal, because he is over six feet.  He has a splendid physique, is handsome and of much talent.  He is a writer and a poet, and speaks all languages.  You must be told that some kings are kings; but King Oscar, there is no doubt about what he is!

At a concert the other evening he came and sat by me, and began talking of music, of his singing, and my singing, and so forth, and finished by saying, “Would you like to have me come to you some day and sing?”

“Of course, your Majesty,” I said.  “I should be delighted.  When may we have the honor of expecting you?”

“How would next Thursday be?” he asked.  “And would half past two be agreeable to you?”

I replied, “Any day or any hour will suit me,” although it was in fact the only day which did not suit me, as it was my reception-day.

“I hope that we may be quite by ourselves,” said the King.  “Only you and the members of your Legation.”

This I could easily promise, as I should have, in any case, closed my doors.

“Your Majesty will stay and have a cup of tea.  I hope.”

“With pleasure,” he answered, “if that will not make my visit too long.”

“Too long, your Majesty!  How could it be too long?”

“Well, then, you may expect me.”

How prepare for les details?  Madame de Sevigny writes somewhere, “que les details soni aussi chers a ceux que nous aimons, qu’ils sont ennuyeux aux autres.”

The servants laid the traditional red carpet on the staircase.  Palms and plants were put in every possible place.

At two o’clock the servants were already on the watch.  The porte-cochere was wide open and the concierge all in a flutter.  The piano-tuner, who had just spent an hour tuning my Bechstein, had departed when a cart drew up in front of the door.  What do you think it was?  Nothing less than the King’s own piano, an upright one, though it did connive at deception, as you will see.  It was one of those pianos with which one could, by turning a key, lower the whole keyboard by half-tones, so that a barytone could masquerade as a tenor and spare the pianist the trouble of transposing the music, and no one would be the wiser.

This was emotion No. 1.

Emotion No. 2:  a carriage which stood before the door brought Mr.
Halstrum, the pianist.

Emotion No. 3 was another carriage full of things—­a music-stand, a quantity of music-books, his Majesty’s spectacles, and a mysterious basket.

Emotion No. 4:  the servants, with all their heads out of the window, spied a carriage coming full tilt up the street.  In it was M. Odman, the best tenor from the Opera.