up, the effect of our banqueting-hall was not bad.  The servants had made it look very well with china and silver brought from the house, also three or four fresh pictures taken from the illustrated papers to cover those which already existed, and which looked rather the worse for smoke and damp.  We were actually obliged to cover General Boulanger and his famous black charger with a “Bois de Boulogne le Matin,” with carriages, riders, bicycles, pretty women and children strolling about.

The view from the windows was charming, and it was amusing to watch all the people toiling up the path.  We recognised many friends, and made frantic signs to them to come and have tea.  We had about three-quarters of an hour before the Comedie began, and when we got to the tent it was crowded—­all the dignitaries—­Bishop, Prefet, Senator, Deputy (he didn’t object to the theatrical performance), M. Henri Houssaye, Academician; M. Roujon, Directeur des Beaux Arts, sitting in the front row in their red arm-chairs, and making quite as much of a show for the villagers as the actors.

The performance began with the third act of “Les Plaideurs,” played with extraordinary entrain.  There were roars of laughter all through the salle, or tent—­none more amused than the band of schoolboys, and their youthful enjoyment was quite contagious.  People turned to look at them, and it was evident that, if they didn’t see, they heard, as they never missed a point—­probably knew it all by heart.  Then came a recitation by Mlle. Moreno, who looked and spoke like a tragic muse the remorse and suffering of Phedre.  The end of the performance—­the two last acts of Berenice—­was enchanting.  Mme. Bartet looked charming in her floating blue draperies, and was the incarnation of the resigned, poetic, loving woman; Paul Mounet was a grand, sombre, passionate Titus, torn between his love for the beautiful Queen and his duty as a Roman to choose only one of his own people to share his throne and honours.  The Roman Senate was an all-powerful body, and a woman’s love too slight a thing to oppose to it.  Bartet was charming all through, either in her long plaintes to her Confidante, where one felt that in spite of her repeated assurances of her lover’s tenderness there was always the doubt of the Emperor’s faith or in her interviews with Titus—­reproaching him and adoring him, with all the magic of her voice and smile.  It was a triumph for them both, and their splendid talent.  With no decor, no room, no scenic illusions of any kind, they held their audience enthralled.  No one minded the heat, nor the crowd, nor the uncomfortable seats, and all were sorry when the well-known lines, said by Mme. Bartet, in her beautiful, clear, pathetic voice

   “Servons tous trois d’exemple a l’Univers
    De l’amour la plus tendre et la plus malheureuse
    Dont il puisse garder l’histoire douloureuse,”

brought to a close the fierce struggle between love and ambition.