_Halévy tempered the fantastic humors of Meilhac, and restrained the more far-fetched of his own, bringing them down to earth. His theatre paints what is called Parisian life, remarkable for ease, delicacy, grace, but without much substance. His novels have a very delicate flavor, with a combination of suavity and irony._ [Illustration] THE GRAND MARRIAGE BY LUDOVIC HALÉVY Translated by J. Matthewman. Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company. _Nov. 25th, 1893. 4 o'clock._ This morning at ten o'clock I was just settling down to attack Beethoven's Twenty-fifth symphony, when the door opened, and who should walk in but mama. Mama awake and stirring at ten o'clock! And not only awake and stirring, but dressed and ready to go out--mantled and bonneted. I could not remember ever to have seen her stirring so early before. She never manages to get to church on Sunday before the middle of the one o'clock mass. The other evening she said, laughingly, to Abbé Pontal: "Monsieur l'Abbé, our dear religion would be absolutely perfect if you substituted a mass at two for that at one. Then the concerts at the _Conservatoire_ could be put an hour later, and Sunday in winter would be all that could be desired." At mama's entrance I was stupefied, and exclaimed: "You are going out, mama?" "No, I've just come in." "You've just come in?" "Yes, I had something to do this morning--to choose some stuffs for the hangings--that blue, you know, which is so difficult to find." "Have you found it?" "No--no. But that they say they can get it for me--and I hope that--They are going to send it by the day after to-morrow at the latest." Mama got quite confused in her explanation. She finally announced that we were going to a _soirée_ at the Mercerey's. There was to be a little music. She had known of it for several days, but had forgotten to mention it to me before. I didn't show the slightest sign of surprise, but while listening to mama, I studied her carefully, and thought to myself: "What's the meaning of all this? Mama rambling about at this unearthly hour, matching blues! A _soirée musicale_ at the Mercerey's! Mama evidently confused, too! There's something hidden." So I let her flounder and never uttered a sound. When she had finished she took a few steps toward the door, just as actors do in a theatre when they pretend they are going out, then she turned back and tried to say with an air of indifference, as if the thought had only just occurred to her: "Which gown do you think of putting on to-night?" "To-night, mama? Really, I don't know. I might put the gray on--or the blue--or the rose."