What was my delight at the Empress's tea this afternoon to see Auber, my dear old Auber! He had been invited for dinner, and had come with the artists who are to play to-night. He looked so well and young, in spite of his eighty-three years. Every one admires him and loves him. He is the essence of goodness, talent, and modesty. He is writing a new opera. Fancy writing an opera at eighty-three! I asked what the name of it was. He answered: "'Le Rêve d'Amour.' The title is too youthful and the composer is too old. I am making a mistake, but what of that? It is my last!" I said I hoped he would live many more years and write many more operas. He shook his head, saying, "Non, non, c'est vraiment mon dernier!" Monsieur de Lareinty said to the Empress at tea that there was an unusual amount of musical talent among her guests--a real galaxy of stars seldom to be found in amateurs. The galaxy may have existed--but the stars! The Milky Way seen through the wrong end of an opera glass was nothing to the smallness of their magnitude. The Empress caught at the idea directly, and the decree went out that there should be a concert tomorrow evening; not mere desultory singing, but singers and songs in regular order. Auber said he was sorry he could not be there to applaud us. He accompanied us when we went to our rooms, and then he had no idea how to find his own. After having seen him handed over successively to three different valets, we left him to his fate, hoping he would arrive at his destination eventually. When we entered the salon for dinner Auber was already there. If he had not brought his own servant with him, he never would have been in time. The troop of the Comédie Française played "La Joie fait Peur," by Musset. The theater was brilliantly lighted; the guests, from the environs and the _fine fleur_ of Compiègne, filled all the boxes. The gentlemen and the officers were in the parquet. The Court and Imperial guests sat with their Majesties in the Imperial box. It was a magnificent sight! Madame Favart was most touching in her part, and everybody, I think, wept. Coquelin was excellent; but I do not like him so much in his pathetic rôles; his squeaky voice and nasal tones do not belong to the sentimental style. After the play he gave a monologue, which was the funniest thing I ever heard, "Les Obsèques de Madame X----." The whole house was laughing, and most of all the Emperor. I could see his back shaking, and the diplomatic and apoplectic Baron condescended to explode twice. The representation lasted till half-past ten. The artists did not change their toilettes, but came into the salon as they were dressed for the play. They were received with great cordiality by their Majesties. The Chamberlain gave them each a little package containing, I suppose, a valuable souvenir from the sovereigns. A special train took them back to Paris.