being taken to the hotel, she died.

The French military _attache_ in Copenhagen was in Paris some days and
invited us to dinner at his mother's, who has a charming home. We met
a great many agreeable people, among whom was the poet Rostand (he is
the brother-in-law of the _attache_). Rostand was very talkative, and
I enjoyed, more than words can tell, my conversation with him. He was
most amusing when he told of his efforts "to be alone with his
thoughts." He said that when he was writing _L'Aiglon_ he was almost
crazy.

"My head seemed bursting with ideas. I could not sleep, and my days
were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous _que j'etais
devenu impossible_. The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of
_delire_. Do you know what I did?" he asked me.

"I suppose," I answered, "you went on writing, all the same."

"No. You could never guess," he laughed. "I sat in a bath-tub all day.
In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone."

"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 C