"Cleopatra puts her tail between her legs and her ears back and looks most guilty, and I know then what the cook told me was true." Then again: "Julius Caesar, you were out extremely late last night. What were you doing?" He said that when he made these reproaches Julius Caesar would get down from his chair and, with his tail high in the air, would rub himself against his legs, as much as to say he would never do it again. "Depend upon it," he added, "they know everything we do, and more." I asked, "When Julius Caesar comes from his nocturnal walks is he _gris_ (tipsy)?" "Gris! Que voulez-vous dire?" "You once wrote a poem (how proud I was that I had recollected it), 'A minuit tous les chats sont gris.'" "C'est vrai, mais je parlais des Schahs de Perse." "Est-ce que tous les Schahs de Perse sont gris à minuit?" "Madame, tous les Schahs de Perse que j'ai eu l'honneur de voir à minuit ont été gris comme des Polonais." "But the 'chats' you wrote about go mewing on roofs at midnight. Do the Schahs de Perse do that?" "Did I write that?" said he. "Then I must have meant cats. You are very inquisitive, Madame." "I confess I am," I answered. "You see, that poem of yours has been set to music, and I sing it; and you may imagine that I want to know what I am singing about. One must sing with an entirely different expression if one sings of gray cats or of tipsy Persian sovereigns." He laughed and asked, with an innocent look, "Do you think I could have meant that at midnight nothing has any particular color--that everything is gray?" "I don't know what you meant; but please tell me what you want me to believe, because I believe everything I am told. I am so naïve." "You naïve! You are the most _blasée_ person I ever met." "I _blasée_! I! What an idea!" Such an idea could only emanate from a poet's brain with an extra-poetical poet's license. I was very indignant, and told him so, and said, "Est-ce que tous les poètes sont fous à cette heure de la soirée?" "Vous voyez," he retorted, "you are not only _blasée_; you are sarcastic." I enjoyed my dinner immensely in spite of being _blasée_, and Gautier's fun and amusing talk lasted until we were back in the salon. The Emperor approached us while we were still laughing, and began to talk to us. I told him that Monsieur Gautier had said that I was _blasée_. The Emperor exclaimed: "Vous blasée! Il faut y mettre beaucoup de bonne volonté pour être blasée à votre âge!" I said I did not know whether to be angry or not with him. "Be angry with him," answered the Emperor. "He deserves it." Waldteufel began playing his delightful waltzes, and every one was boon whirling about. I never heard him play with so much dash; he really seemed inspired. Prince Metternich asked him to order a piano to be sent to his salon in the chateau. "I cannot exist without a piano," said he. "It helps me to write my tiresome _rapports_."