Her other lover (Pierrot) came in unawares; but she had time to throw a shawl over Harlequin, who put himself on all fours, thus making a bench, on which she demurely sat down. In order to throw dust in Pierrot's eyes, she took from her basket a hammer and some nuts and began cracking them (to the audience's and Pan's horror) on poor Harlequin's head, eating them with great _sang-froid_. Prince Metternich had prudently provided a wooden bowl, with which he covered his head so that his ambassadorial skull should be spared. Pan smiled a diabolical smile, and had, of course, a great success. TALON was the next syllable. This was a sort of pantomime. The actors were grouped like a picture of Watteau. Count Pourtales was a dancing-master and was really so witty, graceful, and took such artistic attitudes that he was a revelation to every one. Prince Metternich (his bosom friend) exclaimed: "Who would ever have thought it? How talent conceals itself!" The whole word PANTALON was a combination of Columbines, Harlequins, and Louis-Quinze cavaliers dancing in a circle, and all talking nonsense at once. The statue of Pan in knickerbockers, his wreaths still on his head and shoulders, joined in the dance. The Empress led the vociferous applause, and Prince Metternich came forward on the stage and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are deeply flattered at your approval. There will be a second performance before his Majesty, the Emperor of the French, and I hope you will accord us your patronage." There was great laughter at this. Count Pourtales took me in to dinner. We were very glad to be neighbors. He was resting on his laurels, and I wanted to rest before getting mine (if I got any) this evening. We exchanged views on nervousness. He said he had been dreadfully nervous in the afternoon. I told him I was always nervous when I had to sing, and when I sang the first song I was hot and cold all over. "Like Alboni," he said; "she has had to give up singing in opera, she had such stage-frights." We thanked each other after finishing dinner for having been kind enough to have let the other alone. The rain was still pouring in torrents when we returned to the salon. In spite of the many voices, we could still hear it pattering against the windows of the terrace. It was lucky there were some stars among us, as Monsieur de Lareinty had said, otherwise we would have seen none to-night. At ten o'clock the "galaxy" went into the _salle de musique_, and the planets began to shine. First came Baroness Gourgaud, who attacked the "Mi-bémol Polonaise," of Chopin. Their Majesties settled themselves in their chairs with a look of heavenly resignation on their faces, which was reflected on those of most of the guests.