so many people at the house, and W. wanted to put order into his papers before he left.  Freycinet made various changes at the Quai d’Orsay.  M. Desprey, Directeur de la Politique (a post he had occupied for years) was named ambassador to Rome in the place of the Marquis de Gabriac.  I don’t think he was very anxious to go.  His career had been made almost entirely at the Foreign Office, and he was much more at home in his cabinet, with all his papers and books about him, than he would be abroad among strangers.  He came to dinner one night, and we talked the thing over.  W. thought the rest and change would do him good.  He was named to the Vatican, where necessarily there was much less to do in the way of social life than at the Quirinal.  He was perfectly au courant of all the questions between the Vatican and the French clergy—­his son, secretary of embassy, would go with him.  It seemed rather a pleasant prospect.

W. went once or twice to the Senate, as the houses met on the 12th or 14th of January, but there was nothing very interesting those first days.  The Chamber was taking breath after the holidays and the last ministerial crisis, and giving the new ministry a chance.  I think Freycinet had his hands full, but he was quite equal to the task.  I went late one afternoon to the Elysee.  I had written to Madame Grevy to ask if she would receive me before I left for Italy.  When I arrived, the one footman at the door told me Madame Grevy was un peu souffrante, would see me up-stairs.  I went up a side staircase, rather dark, preceded by the footman, who ushered me into Madame Grevy’s bedroom.  It looked perfectly uncomfortable—­was large, with very high ceilings, stiff gilt furniture standing against the wall, and the heat something awful,—­a blazing fire in the chimney.  Madame Grevy was sitting in an armchair, near the fire, a grey shawl on her shoulders and a lace fichu on her head.  It was curiously unlike the bedroom I had just left.  I had been to see a friend, who was also souffrante.  She was lying under a lace coverlet lined with pink silk, lace, and embroidered cushions all around her, flowers, pink lamp-shades, silver flacons, everything most luxurious and modern.  The contrast was striking.  Madame Grevy was very civil, and talkative,—­said she was very tired.  The big dinners and late hours she found very fatiguing.  She quite understood that I was glad to get away, but didn’t think it was very prudent to travel in such bitterly cold weather—­and Rome was very far, and wasn’t I afraid of fever?  I told her I was an old Roman—­had lived there for years, knew the climate well, and didn’t think it was worse than any other.  She said the President had had a visit from W. and a very long talk with him, and that he regretted his departure very much, but that he didn’t think “Monsieur Waddington was au fond de son sac.”  Grevy was always a good friend to W.—­on one or two occasions, when there was a sort of cabal against him, Grevy took his part very warmly—­and