animal was perfectly quiet, and kept close to her. I think the lights
and the quantity of people frightened it. It growled once or twice, and
we all had a feeling of relief when it was taken away. I asked the
Marechale afterward if she were afraid. "Oui, j'avais tres peur, mais je
ne voulais pas le montrer devant ces allemands." (Yes, I was very
frightened, but I would not show it before those Germans.) They had
eventually to send the bear away, back to Germany. It grew wilder as it
grew older, and became quite unmanageable--they couldn't keep it in
the embassy.

Hohenlohe was always pleasant and easy. I think he had a real sympathy
for France and did his best on various delicate occasions. The year of
the exposition (1878) we dined out every night and almost always with
the same people. Hohenlohe often fell to me. He took me in to dinner ten
times in succession. The eleventh time we were each of us in despair as
we filed out together, so I said to him: "Don't let us even pretend to
talk; you can talk to your other neighbour and I will to mine." However,
we _did_ talk chiffons, curiously enough. I had waited for a dress,
which only came home at the last moment, and when I put it on the
corsage was so tight I could hardly bear it. It was too late to change,
and I had nothing else ready, so most uncomfortable I started for my
dinner. I didn't dare to eat anything, hardly dared move, which
Hohenlohe remarked, after seeing three or four dishes pass me untouched,
and said to me: "I am afraid you are ill; you are eating nothing." "No,
not at all, only very uncomfortable"--and then I explained the situation
to him--that my dress was so tight I could neither move nor eat. He was
most indignant--"How could women be so foolish--why did we want to
have abnormally small waists and be slaves to our dressmakers?--men
didn't like made-up figures." "Oh, yes, they do; all men admire a
slight, graceful figure." "Yes, when it is natural, but no man