As a _bonne bouche_ we took Mrs. Lawrence to Madame Carnot's evening reception. These receptions are not gay. They might be called standing-_soirées_, as no one ever sits down. The guests move in a procession through the _salons_, the last one of which is rather a melancholy one. In the middle of it is a square piece of marble lying flat on the floor, and a quantity of withered wreaths and faded ribbons piled up on it. They are the souvenirs of the late President's funeral. Madame Carnot, a most charming lady, wears a long black veil as in the first days of her widowhood, and receives in a widowed-Empress manner. Mrs. Lawrence's visit is the incentive for active service in the army of musicians. The President often sends me the _ci-devant_ Imperial _loge_ at the Conservatoire. In old times I used to think how splendid it would be to sit here! Now I have the twelve seats to dispose of--six large gilded Empire _fauteuils_ in front, and six small ones behind. There is always a bright coal-fire in the _salon_ adjoining, but it does not take away the damp coldness from a room where a ray of light or a breath of fresh air never can penetrate. The concerts seem exactly the same as they used to be; they do not appear to have changed either in their _repertoires_ or in their audiences. Beethoven, Haydn, and Bach are still the fashion, and the old _habitués_ still bob their heads in rhythmical measure. The chorus of men and women look precisely as they did when dear old Auber was _directeur_ (twenty-five years ago). I think that they must be the same. The sopranos are still dressed in white, and the contraltos in black, indicative of their voices' color. Pugno with his pudgy hands played the Concerto of Mozart in his masterful manner. One wonders how he can have any command over the keyboard, he has such short arms and such a protruding stomach. As a modern innovation Pierno's "_Création_" was given, beautifully executed, but received only with toleration. Just to go up the familiar worn staircase brought the old scenes vividly before me. Then it was a great piece of luck to obtain a seat within its sacred walls, and such an event to go to a concert that I can still remember my sensations. PARIS, _1899_. My dear Sister,--You ask me to tell you about the "Dreyfus affair." It is a lengthy tale, and such a tissue of lies and intrigue that common sense wonders if the impossible cannot be possible, if wrong cannot be right. You probably know more of the details of the case than I do, if you have followed it from the beginning, as I am just beginning to follow.