What was my delight at the Empress's tea this afternoon to see Auber, my
dear old Auber! He had been invited for dinner, and had come with the
artists who are to play to-night. He looked so well and young, in spite of
his eighty-three years. Every one admires him and loves him. He is the
essence of goodness, talent, and modesty. He is writing a new opera. Fancy
writing an opera at eighty-three!
I asked what the name of it was. He answered: "'Le Rêve d'Amour.' The
title is too youthful and the composer is too old. I am making a mistake,
but what of that? It is my last!"