the opera-house, where rehearsals for the summer's
festival were going busily forward, proved far too interesting to
require any polite pretence. Ivan took his leave of the widow, (who has
done so much to augment the fame of her husband), with expressions of
sincere regard and regret, adding, involuntarily, his satisfaction that
this stay was to form his final impression of musical Germany.--For,
three days later, Monsieur Gregoriev and his suite arrived in Paris:
home of a very different musical cult.

Here a new group--one no less distinguished than that of their German
brethren,--awaited the Russian star. Aged Gounod, Messrs. Saint-Saens,
Massenet, and Bizet, with Bemberg, Vidal and Duparc the song-writers,
together with a little group of the younger school, d'Indy, Charpentier
and their set, were gathered together to prepare a festival for Prince
Gregoriev, showering on him attentions of every kind; and laboring
tirelessly to convince him of their admiration and their "sympathetic
appreciation." No blunt comment or criticism here! All was smoothly,
exquisitely polished: urbanely, beautifully French. But within a week or
two Kashkine noted that Ivan was turning inward again towards himself
and his habitual solitude. And he knew that presently these complacent
fellows would be sticking themselves on the spikes of a chestnut-burr of
moroseness, _brusquerie_, and blunt refusals to have anything to do with
music and musicians.

What to do? As the days went on and his fears were fulfilled, Kashkine
brought himself a dozen times to the verge of remonstrance, of pleading,
of explanation; but, each time he opened his lips to speak on that
subject, his courage failed, and he retreated hurriedly to safer topics.
It was odd that this gentle-natured man, so easily assailable in
general, should prove so unapproachable on the subject of personal
expediency. Even Kashkine, already Ivan's Boswell, a man unselfishly
eager that his friend should leave behind him a trail of golden
admiration, dared not make the suggestion that it were better to move
on, merely because he so dreaded the inevitable quiet glance and the
direct, unequivocal: "Why?"

Happily, however, Constantine's secret anxiety was soon ended. One
afternoon, as the two friends sat together in the _salon_ of Ivan's
suite, the Prince called Piotr to him, ordered him to arrange a farewell
dinner for his friends on the following evening, and to be ready to
leave, on the su