Thus I frequently spent the evenings in familiar intercourse with my amiable hosts, and was even seduced into trying to instruct them about Schopenhauer.  On one occasion a larger evening assembly led to almost intoxicating excitement.  Selections from several of my works were vivaciously played in a circle of friends all very much prepossessed in my favour.  Saint-Saens took the piano, and I had the unusual experience of hearing the final scene of Isolde rendered by the Neapolitan Princess Campo-Reale, who, to that excellent musician’s accompaniment, sang it with a beautiful German accent and an astounding faithfulness of intonation.

I thus passed three weeks in peace and quiet.  Meanwhile, Count Pourtales had procured me a superior Prussian ministerial passport for my projected visit to Germany, his attempt to get me a Saxon passport having failed, owing to the nervousness of Herr von Seebach.

This time, before taking leave of Paris—­for ever, as I supposed--I felt impelled to bid an intimate farewell to the few French friends who had stood by me loyally in the difficulties I had overcome.  We met at a cafe in Rue Lafitte—­Gasperini, Champfleury, Truinet and I—­and talked until late in the night.  When I was about to start on my homeward way to the Faubourg St. Germain, Champfleury, who lived on the heights of Montmartre, declared that he must take me home, because we did not know whether we should ever see each other again.  I enjoyed the exquisite effect of the bright moonlight on the deserted Paris streets; only the huge business firms, whose premises extend to the uppermost floors, seemed to have turned night into day in a picturesque fashion, particularly those houses which have been pressed into the service of trade in the Rue Richelieu.  Champfleury smoked his short pipe and discussed with me the prospects of French politics.  His father was, he told me, an old Bonapartist of the first water, but had been moved to exclaim, a short time before, after reading the papers day after day, ‘Pourtant, avant de mourir je voudrais voir autre chose.’  We parted very affectionately at the door of the embassy.

I took leave in equally friendly fashion of a young Parisian friend, who has not yet been mentioned—­Gustave Dore—­who had been sent to me by Ollivier at the very outset of my Paris venture.  He had proposed to make a fantastic drawing of me in the act of conducting, without, it is true, ever realising his intention.  I do not know why, except, perhaps, that I did not show any particular inclination for it.  Dore remained loyal to me, however, and was one of those who made a point of demonstrating their friendship just now in their extreme indignation at the outrage inflicted on me.  This extraordinarily prolific artist proposed to include the Nibelungen among his many subjects for illustration, and I wished first to make him acquainted with my interpretation of this cycle of legends.  This was undoubtedly