There were other moments funny beyond words especially when Mr. Beaumont's English fails to cope with the situation and he will try to discuss the points where the Countess has failed. He says, "Did you not see he put his king on your spade ace-spot?" and, "Madame, you played the third of spades." And when we count honors, Beaumont will cover the table with his great elbows and enumerate his: "I had the ass, the knight, and the dame." I heard a suppressed chuckle from my father-in-law, and seemed to see a vision of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza pass before me. _24th of April._ DEAR MAMA,--Auber sent a note early this morning by his coachman to ask me to lunch with him at ten-thirty o'clock (of course accompanied by Mademoiselle, my aunt, as he calls her). The coachman says that his master is not feeling well and longs to see a friend. I am proud to be the friend he longs to see, and was only too happy to accept. Mademoiselle W---- was equally happy, ready, as always, for any excursion where a good repast was in view, and of that we were sure, as Auber's chef is renowned, and is so clever that, though the market is limited, he can make something delicious out of nothing. Louis appeared in a short jacket and a straw hat, looking rather waggish and very embarrassed to present himself in such a costume. Driving through the Boulevard Clichy and endless out-of-the-way streets, we finally reached Auber's hotel, which is in the Rue St. Georges. Louis was glad to find safety under the _porte-cochère_, and to see his bosom companion, Auber's butler, into whose arms he fell with joy. Auber came to the door to welcome us, seeming most grateful that we had come, and led us into the salon. There is only one way to get into the salon, and that is either through the dining-room or the bedroom; we went through the bedroom, as the other was decked for the feast. I have never seen Auber look so wretched and sad as he did to-day; I could hardly believe it was the same Auber I have always seen so gay and full of life and spirits. I brought a tiny bunch of lilies of the valley, which Louis had gathered in the all-producing hothouse. "Merci, merci," he said. "Les fleurs! C'est la vie parfumée." Waiting for the breakfast to be served, he showed us about in his apartment. In the salon, rather primly furnished, stood the grand piano. The bookshelves contained Cherubini's (his master) and his own operas, and his beloved Bach. A table in the middle of the room, covered with photographs and engravings, completed son _salon de garçon_. The bedroom was also very primitive: his wooden bed, with its traditional covering of _bourre_; a chiffonier containing his curios, royal presents, and costly souvenirs; his writing-table; and his old piano, born in 1792, on which he composed all his operas.