We are very anxious about the news we get from Denmark. The dear Queen is very ill, and there is little hope of her recovery. PARIS, _29th September_. Dear ----,--The Queen died last night. Every one in Paris has come to us to express his sympathy. As is the custom in Europe, people write their names in a book placed in the antechamber. There are several hundred signatures. In Denmark there is mourning ordered for six months. As there is no Danish church in Paris, a memorial service for the Queen was celebrated in the Greek chapel. It was most solemn and beautiful. I love to hear the mournful chants of the white-robed, solemn priests. It was very sad to hear of the assassination of the beautiful Empress of Austria. She was in Geneva and about to take the little boat to go up the lake. The assassin met her and, apparently running against her accidentally, stabbed her. She did not feel the thrust and continued to walk on. When she stepped on the boat they noticed the blood on her dress, and soon after, on being taken to the hotel, she died. The French military _attaché_ in Copenhagen was in Paris some days and invited us to dinner at his mother's, who has a charming home. We met a great many agreeable people, among whom was the poet Rostand (he is the brother-in-law of the _attaché_). Rostand was very talkative, and I enjoyed, more than words can tell, my conversation with him. He was most amusing when he told of his efforts "to be alone with his thoughts." He said that when he was writing _L'Aiglon_ he was almost crazy. "My head seemed bursting with ideas. I could not sleep, and my days were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous _que j'etais devenu impossible_. The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of _delire_. Do you know what I did?" he asked me. "I suppose," I answered, "you went on writing, all the same." "No. You could never guess," he laughed. "I sat in a bath-tub all day. In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone." "Tubs," I remarked, "seem to belong to celebrities. Diogenes had one, I remember, where he sat and pondered." "But it was not a bath-tub. I consider my idea rather original! Do you not think that the Great Sarah is magnificent in '_L'Aiglon_'?" "Magnificent," I said. "You are fortunate to have such an interpreter." "Am I not?" He was a delightful man. He sent me a few lines of the Princess Lointaine, with his autograph. At Mr. Dannat's, the well-known American portrait-painter, I met the celebrated composer Moskowski. One does not expect to find good looks and a pleasing talker and a _charmeur_ in a modern artist. But he combines all of these. He said: "I shall die a most miserable and unhappy man." "Why?" I inquired. I feared he would confide in me the secrets of his heart, which is at present mostly occupied with his handsome and giddy wife. These, however, he kept wisely to himself.