It was so cold and bleak I longed to get back to warm rooms, cheerful fire, and a hot cup of tea, which I was sure to find awaiting me, and I was heartily glad when we turned homeward. Six o'clock had just struck when we drove up to the front of the Grand Escalier, and I was able to get a little rest before dressing for dinner. All the ladies who owned diamond crescents, or any crescent suggestive of Diana and her pastimes, put them on. The Empress had a gorgeous crescent on her lovely hair. The worn-out Marquis took me in to dinner. It was fortunate, for there were some vital points which we had to discuss. On my other side was the Count de Grammont, a sportsman, who wanted to talk only of the hunt; but I was able to turn a deaf ear to his marvelous exploits, thanks to the Marquis's incessant explanations. There was a little dancing, to fill up the time before the _curée_. It is a pity that this is our last dance. The chamberlains are beginning to show a good deal of talent in their playing _le piano méchanique_, and they can play almost in time. The _curée_ was at ten o'clock. The long gallery was soon alive with an eager public. All the windows were occupied by the ladies. The courtyard was filled, in spite of the cold weather, with the populace of Compiègne; the _piqueurs_ waved their torches; the dogs howled and yelped; the _gardes_ blew their long _cors de chasse_, and it was just like last year, except that on this occasion there were two stags--therefore, two sets of entrails to be devoured. Tea and cakes were passed about. Those who had come from the neighboring châteaux took their leave, those who were to return to Paris drove off to the station, and the privileged guests retired to their apartments. _December 4th._ At ten o'clock this morning I was surprised at hearing a timid knock at my salon door. Who should it be but the Marquis d'Aoust. He begged my pardon for disturbing me; but he wished to consult me about something he considered of great importance. He looked disheveled and careworn, even at this early hour, as if he had not slept all night. Would I be willing to help Count d'E---- in our duet, and sing a part of his music? Otherwise, he was sure it would never go. I told him it would not be easy to sing tenor; but I would see at the rehearsal what I could do. He was in despair. I tried to tranquilize him, my compassion triumphing over my forebodings, and assured him that all would go well. I did not tell him that I had had a succession of nightmares last night, where I saw myself stranded on the stage, having forgotten both words and music. He said that he had been on the stage at work with the carpenters since I don't know when this morning. They had first put up the scenery as he had ordered; but he saw that there would not be space for the eight performers (there are two scenes where we are all on the stage at once). Accordingly, he had ordered the carpenters to change it.