While I was trying with all my might to listen to Thiers's speech, who, I was sure, was saying something most interesting, Mr. Hoffman, on one side of me, would say, in a low tone, "Just think of it! Here, in these very same boxes, the pampered and powdered [or something like that] Court of Louis XIV. sat and listened to Rameau's operas." I tried to seem impressed. Then, on the other side, I would hear, "Do you know, Mrs. Moulton, that the Communists have just taken seven millions of francs from the Bank of France?" The distant, squeaky voice of Thiers trying to penetrate space, said, "La force ne fonde rien, parce qu'elle ne résout rien." And when I was hoping to comprehend why "La force" did not "fonder" anything I would hear Mr. Hoffman whisper, "When you think that Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette passed the last evening they ever spent in Versailles in this theater!" "Really," I replied vaguely. My other neighbor remarked, "You know the 'Reds' are concentrating for a sortie to Versailles." "You don't say so!" I answered, dreadfully confused. There would be a moment's pause, and I caught the sound of General Billet's deep basso proposing that the French nation should adopt the family of General Lecomte, who had been so mercilessly butchered by the mob. Mr. Hoffman, continuing _his_ train of thought, remembered that Napoleon III. gave that "magnificent dinner" to Queen Victoria in this theater. Jules Grévy talked at great length about something I did not hear, and when I asked Mr. Hoffman what it was, he answered me, something I did not understand. Jules Favre next spoke about the future glories of _notre glorieux pays_ and the destiny of France. These remarks were received with tremendous applause. People stood up, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs, every one seeming very excited; but my American friends were not greatly impressed. "How typical!" says Mr. Hoffman. "What rubbish!" says Mr. Washburn. When we returned to Paris we found Mr. Moulton in a flutter of agitation. Beaumont (the renowned and popular painter) had been at the house in the afternoon, and had asked Mr. Moulton's permission to bring Courbet (the celebrated artist, _now_ a Communard) to see us. Mr. Moulton had no sooner said yes than he regretted his impulsiveness, but he forgot to call Beaumont back to tell him so. The result was that we had the visit of Courbet last evening. Mr. Moulton put on a bold face and broke the news to us on our arrival; but, contrary to his fears, Mrs. Moulton and I were enchanted. Mademoiselle Wissembourg was not so enthusiastic. A live Communard at such near focus had no attraction for her. Beaumont's politics are sadly wanting in color, making him supremely indifferent to other people's politics; and, as he has a great admiration for Courbet as an artist, he does not care whether he is a Communard or not.