with his dress (a bright pink satin cravat was rather striking) and thanked the butler most gratefully every time he handed him a dish—­“Je vous remercie beaucoup, Monsieur.”  We had our two grand pianos and were going to play the overture of Tannhaeuser, one of the simplest and most melodious of Wagner’s compositions.  The performers were Francis and I, Mlle. Dubois and the organist.  It was a little difficult to arrange who he should play with.  He was very nervous at the idea of playing with Mlle. Dubois—­rather frightened of me and in absolute terror at the idea of playing before W. Finally it was decided that he and I should take the second piano—­he playing the bass.  It was really funny to see him; his eyes were fixed on the music and he counted audibly and breathlessly all the time, and I heard him muttering occasionally to himself, “Non ce n’est pas possible,” “Non ce n’est pas cela.”

I must say that the Walpurgis Night for a person playing at sight and unaccustomed to Wagner’s music is an ordeal—­however, he acquitted himself extremely well and we got through our performance triumphantly, but great drops of perspiration were on his forehead.  W. was very nice to him and Mlle. Dubois quite charming, encouraging him very much.  Still I don’t think his evening at the chateau was one of unmixed pleasure, and I am sure he was glad to have that overture behind him.

We saw our neighbours very rarely; occasionally some men came to breakfast.  The sous-prefet, one or two of the big farmers or some local swells who wanted to talk politics to W. One frequent visitor was an architect from Chateau-Thierry, who had built W.’s farm.  He was an enormous man, very stout and red, always attired in shiny black broadcloth.  He was a very shrewd specimen, very well up in all that went on in the country and very useful to W. He had a fine appetite, always tucking his napkin carefully under his chin when he sat down to table.  He talked a great deal one day about his son, who had a good tenor voice and had just got an engagement at the Opera Comique.  Said he would like us to hear him sing—­might he bring him some day to breakfast?

He came back two or three weeks later with the young man, who was a great improvement upon his father.  The Paris boulevards and the coulisses of the opera had quite modified the young provincial.  He talked a good deal at table, was naturally much pleased to have got into the Opera Comique.  As it is a “theatre subventionne” (government theatre), he considered himself a sort of official functionary.  After breakfast he asked us if we would like to hear him sing—­sat down to the piano, accompanying himself very simply and easily and sang extremely well.  I was much astonished and Mme. A. was delighted, especially when he sang some old-fashioned songs from the “Dame Blanche” and the “Domino Noir.”  The old father was enchanted, a broad smile on his face.  He confided to W. that he had hoped his son would walk in his footsteps and content himself with a modest position as architect in the country, but after six months in Paris where he had sent him to learn his profession his ideas had completely changed and he would not hear of vegetating in the country.