wife,
which Madame de la R---- undertook to convey herself to Madame Victor
Hugo the next day. While emptying my pockets I found a box for the
"Italiens," which I offered to Madame de la R----. On that evening
(Tuesday, December 2d) they were to play _Hernani_.

I looked at that cot, these two handsome, happy young people, and at
myself, my disordered hair and clothes, my boots covered with mud,
gloomy thoughts in my mind, and I felt like an owl in a nest of
nightingales.

A few moments afterwards M. and Madame de la R---- had disappeared into
their bedroom, and the half-opened curtain was closed. I stretched
myself, fully dressed as I was, upon the sofa, and this gentle nest
disturbed by me subsided into its graceful silence.

One can sleep on the eve of a battle between two armies, but on the eve
of a battle between citizens there can be no sleep. I counted each hour
as it sounded from a neighboring church; throughout the night there
passed down the street, which was beneath the windows of the room where I
was lying, carriages which were fleeing from Paris. They succeeded each
other rapidly and hurriedly, one might have imagined it was the exit from
a ball. Not being able to sleep, I got up. I had slightly parted the
muslin curtains of a window, and I tried to look outside; the darkness
was complete. No stars, clouds were flying by with the turbulent violence
of a winter night. A melancholy wind howled. This wind of clouds
resembled the wind of events.

I watched the sleeping baby. I waited for dawn. It came. M. de la R----
had explained at my request in what manner I could go out without
disturbing any one. I kissed the child's forehead, and left the room. I
went downstairs, closing the doors behind me as gently as I could, so
not to wake Madame de la R----. I opened the iron door and went out into
the street. It was deserted, the shops were still shut, and a milkwoman,
with her donkey by her side, was quietly arranging her cans on the
pavement.

I have not seen M. de la R---- again. I learned since that he wrote to
me in my exile, and that his letter was intercepted. He has, I believe,
quitted France. May this touching page convey to him my kind
remembrances.

The Rue Caumartin leads into the Rue St. Lazare. I went towards it. It
was broad daylight. At every moment I was overtaken and passed by
_fiacres_ laden with trunks and packages, which were hastening towards
the Havre railway station. Passers-by began