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 surpassed at Bayreuth.  In the entr’actes we reviewed—­seated in the luxurious, spacious 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!

[Illustration:  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 quantity 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.