“Tubs,” I remarked, “seem to belong to celebrities.  Diogenes had one, I remember, where he sat and pondered.”

“But it was not a bath-tub.  I consider my idea rather original!  Do you not think that the Great Sarah is magnificent in ’L’Aiglon’?”

“Magnificent,” I said.  “You are fortunate to have such an interpreter.”

“Am I not?” He was a delightful man.

He sent me a few lines of the Princess Lointaine, with his autograph.

At Mr. Dannat’s, the well-known American portrait-painter, I met the celebrated composer Moskowski.  One does not expect to find good looks and a pleasing talker and a charmeur in a modern artist.  But he combines all of these.  He said: 

“I shall die a most miserable and unhappy man.”

“Why?” I inquired.  I feared he would confide in me the secrets of his heart, which is at present mostly occupied with his handsome and giddy wife.  These, however, he kept wisely to himself.

“I am like Rubinstein,” he said.  “He was wretched because he could not write an opera.  I also wish to write an opera, but I cannot.”

“Who could, if not you?” I said.  “I think your Concerto one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.”

“You flatter me,” he said, modestly, “but, alas! you cannot make me a writer of operas.  To-morrow afternoon is the repetition generale at the Cologne Concert of my Concerto.  Teresa Careno plays the piano part.  Would you allow me to accompany you, if you would like to go?”

Did I accept?  Yes!

Teresa Careno surpassed herself, and the Concerto was enthusiastically received.  Siegfried Wagner led the orchestra in a composition of his own.  He was very arbitrary and made the artists go over and over again the same phrase without any seeming reason.  One poor flutist almost tore his hair out by the roots.  Wagner was so dissatisfied with his playing that he stopped him twenty times.  At last, as if it were a hopeless task, he shrugged his shoulders and went on.

[Illustration:  LINES FROM “LA PRINCESSE LOINTAINE” WITH ROSTAND’S AUTOGRAPH]

Count and Countess Castellane (Miss Gould) gave a great entertainment to inaugurate their hotel-palace in the Bois.  The young King of Spain was their guest of honor, and the smiling hostess clung to his arm throughout the entire evening, introducing people as they passed.  She did not know every one’s name nor half of their titles.

The cotillion was short and the supper long, and both were costly.  The King of Spain is not handsome, but he has charming manners and a determined jaw and a very sympathetic smile.  We met him again at the Grand Prix in the President’s pavilion.  It was a most brilliant sight.  Every one in Paris was there, and the toilets of the ladies were of the dernier cri.

The King of Sweden kept his word and really did come to Paris.  A dinner for him at the Elysees included us (the only persons who were not French except the Swedish Legation).  We are, as you know, what they call “une legation de famille.”  I was more than enchanted to see the King again.  He promised to come and take tea with me the next day.