Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman's eyes to read the fine print of the _Gazette_? Alas! no. Mr Moulton's eyes were not the kind that recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardly had we finished our coffee than out came the _Gazette_. We all listened, apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction; Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself to slumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years. Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmured to himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, his profound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the art of enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what his graceful language could become _del bocca Americana_! Delsarte's idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers of the workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large about the hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating from the same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; a fancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if he had a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on his _calotte_, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolution of 1848. Massenet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with his editor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. After the _Gazette_ we awoke to life, and Massenet played some of the "Poème de Souvenir," which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). What a genius he is! Massenet always calls Auber _le Maître_, and Auber calls him _le cher enfant_. Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers, and while he was at one piano Massenet put himself at the other (we have two in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wished they could have gone on forever. Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, we could have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris--in the hands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed, Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of. Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing "Il pleut, il pleut, Bergère," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chanté tout l'été," and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of the fable, "Eh bien, dansez maintenant," he gave such a tragic shake to his head that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hung limply over his bosom. I sang the "Caro Nome" of "Rigoletto," with Massenet's accompaniment. Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me on the expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into my voice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls. He now felt he had not lived in vain.