Nothing else was talked of in the evening but the operetta, and the Marquis was in the seventh heaven of delight. Their Majesties were told of the Marquis's interesting intention. I could see, across the room, that the Empress knew that I was going to take part, for she looked over toward me, nodding her head and smiling at me. There was some dancing for an hour, when one of the chamberlains came up and said to me that the Empress would be pleased if I would sing some of my American songs. I was delighted, and went directly into the _salle de musique_, and when the others had come in, I sat down at the piano and accompanied myself in the few negro songs I knew. I sang "Suwanee River," "Shoo-fly," and "Good-by, Johnny, come back to your own chickabiddy." Then I sang a song of Prince Metternich's, called, "Bonsoir, Marguerite," which he accompanied. I finished, of course, with "Beware!" which Charles accompanied. The Emperor came up to me and asked, "What does chickabiddy mean?" I answered, "'Come back soon to your own chickabiddy' means 'Reviens bientôt à ta chérie,'" which apparently satisfied him. Their Majesties thanked me with effusion, and were very gracious. The Emperor himself brought a cup of tea to me, a very unusual thing for him to do, and I fancy a great compliment, saying, "This is for our chickabiddy!" Their Majesties bowed in leaving the room; every one made a deep reverence, and we retired to our apartments. _November 30th._ The old, pompous, ponderous diplomat (what am I saying?)--I should have said, "the very distinguished diplomat"--the same one the Emperor told me yesterday was so impervious to a joke, honored me by giving me his baronial arm for _déjeuner_. I can't imagine why he did it, unless it were to get a lesson in English gratis, of which he was sadly in need. He struck me as being very masterful and weighed down with the mighty affairs of his tiny little kingdom. I was duly impressed, and never felt so subdued in all my life, which I suppose was the effect he wished to produce on me. We sat like two gravestones, only waiting for an epitaph. Suddenly he muttered (as if such an immense idea was too great for him to keep to himself), "Diplomacy, Madame, is a dog's business." ("La diplomatie est un métier de chien.") I ventured to ask, "Is it because one is attached to a post?" He gave me such a withering look that I wished I had never made this silly remark. All the same, he unbent a little and, with a dismal twinkle in his eye, his face brightening, and launching into frivolity, said: "The Emperor told me something very funny the other day. (I knew what was coming.) He asked me why I liked salad." Turning to me he said, "Can you guess the answer?" I had many ready for him; but I refrained and only said, "No, what was it?"