but the living-rooms were small, not numerous, and decidedly gloomy. Of
course I saw much less of W. He never came home to breakfast, except on
Sunday, as it was too far from the rue de Grenelle to the Etoile. The
Arc de Triomphe stands in the Place de l'Etoile at the top of the
Champs-Elysees. All the great avenues, Alma, Jena, Kleber, and the
adjacent streets are known as the Quartier de l'Etoile. It was before
the days of telephones, so whenever an important communication was to be
made to him when he was at home in the evening, a dragoon galloped up
with his little black bag from which he extracted his papers. It made
quite an excitement in our quiet street the first time he arrived after
ten o'clock. We just managed our morning ride, and then there were often
people waiting to speak to W. before we started, and always when he came
back. There was a great amount of patronage attached to his ministry,
nominations to all the universities, lycees, schools, etc., and, what
was most agreeable to me, boxes at all the government theatres,--the
Grand Opera, Opera Comique, Francais, Odeon, and Conservatoire. Every
Monday morning we received the list for the week, and, after making
our own selection, distributed them to the official world
generally,--sometimes to our own personal friends. The boxes of the
Francais, Opera, and Conservatoire were much appreciated.

I went very regularly to the Sunday afternoon concerts at the
Conservatoire, where all classical music was splendidly given. They
confined themselves generally to the strictly classic, but were
beginning to play a little Schumann that year. Some of the faces of the
regular habitues became most familiar to me. There were three or four
old men with grey hair sitting in the first row of stalls (most
uncomfortable seats) who followed every note of the music, turning
around and frowning at any unfortunate person in a box who dropped a fan
or an opera-glass. It was funny to hear the hum of satisfaction when any