We had tea on the shore, made in Countess Frankenstein's tea-basket, and it was delicious sitting there, seeing the little blue waves break at our feet, and the beautiful clear atmosphere making everything look so soft and near. The coming home was enchanting, very few people on the road, so we could come quickly, and the flying through the air was delightful after the heat and fatigue of the day. The Campagna is beautiful at the end of the day; so quiet, long stretches of green just broken here and there by the shepherds' huts, and the long lines of aqueducts, curiously lonely so close to a great city. We had just time to dress and dine, and start for the gala at the opera. The theatre (Argentina) is small, and stands in a narrow street. There was a long file of carriages, and so little space in front, that there could be no display of troops, music, etc., as one has always in Paris for a gala night at the Opera. Inside, too, all is small, the entrance, corridor, staircase, etc. Once we had got to our box the coup d'oeil was charming. The whole house is boxes, tier upon tier, all dark red inside, which threw out the women's dresses and jewels splendidly. They were almost all in white with handsome tiaras, the men in uniform, at least the diplomatists and officers. The peuple souverain, senators, deputies, etc., in the parterre were in black. The heat was something awful. The Court came very punctually--the Queen looked handsome with her beautiful tiara, the King of course in uniform, the President between them in black with no decoration. The house went mad (every one standing of course) when they played the Marseillaise, all the parterre cheering and waving hats and handkerchiefs; equally mad when they stopped that and played the Marcia Reale. The King, who is generally quite impassive, looked pleased. The performance, like all gala performances, was long, but the Royal party didn't look bored, and seemed to talk to each other, and to Loubet quite a good deal. The King has a serious, almost stern face, with a keen, steady look in the eye. I should think he saw everything. The end of the ballet was a fine potpourri of French and Italian flags, Marseillaise and Marcia Reale, and the Court left in a roar of cheers. The Queen bowed very graciously and prettily right and left as she turned to go. The getting away was difficult and disagreeable, the narrow street was crowded with royal carriages, all the horses prancing and backing, and no one paying attention to anything else. However, it was a fine, dry night, and once we had got across the street we found our carriage (guided by the faithful Pietro) without any trouble.