"I think it was in 1847, or thereabouts," she replied. "Then I went to
Paris; but I do not wish to speak of that horrid place."
"Is Paris such a horrid place?" I asked. "I wish you would come while I am
there."
[Illustration: JENNY LIND]
"Never, never!" she cried. "They treated me so abominably I vowed that I
would never set foot in Paris again, and although they have offered me
every possible inducement I have always refused."
"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "Would you not like to see the Exposition in
Paris next year? I think it might interest you."
"Yes, that might interest me; but Paris! Paris!"
"Do you know Auber?" I asked.
"Auber. No, I have always wanted to know him, but have never had an
opportunity."
"If you will come to Paris, I will arrange that you meet him."
"I will! I will! And then I will sing for him!" she said, with almost
girlish glee.
How delighted I was to think that I might be the medium to bring them
together.
She asked me a great many questions about my singing. Suddenly she said,
"Make a trill for me."
I looked about for a piano to give me a note to start on. But a piano was
evidently the thing where the Goldschmidts had drawn the line. I made as
good a trill as I could without one.
"Very good!" said she, nodding her head approvingly. "I learned my trill
this way." And she made a trill for me, accentuating the upper note.