self at a farm called Fosse, which a generous friend lent me.* The
house was inhabited by a Vendean soldier, who certainly did not keep
it in the nicest order, but who had a loyal good nature that made
every thing easy, and an originality of character that was very
amusing. Scarcely had we arrived, when an Italian musician, whom I
had with me to give lessons to my daughter, began playing upon the
guitar; my daughter accompanied upon the harp the sweet voice of my
beautiful friend Madame Recamier; the peasants collected round the
windows, astonished to see this colony of troubadours, which had
come to enliven the solitude of their master. It was there I passed
my last days in France, with some friends, whose recollection lives
in my heart. Certainly this intimate assemblage, this solitary
residence, this agreeable occupation with the fine arts did no harm
to any one. We frequently sung a charming air composed by the Queen
of Holland, and of which the burden is: 'Do what you ought, happen
what may'. After dinner, we had imagined the idea of seating
ourselves round a green table and writing letters to each other,
instead of conversing. These varied and multiplied tetes-a-tete
amused us so much, that we were impatient to get from table, where
we were talking, in order to go and write to one another. When any
strangers came in accidentally, we could not bear the interruption
of our habits; and our penny post (it is thus we called it) always
went its round. The inhabitants of the neighbouring town were
somewhat astonished at these new manners, and looked upon them as
pedantic, while there was nothing in this game, but a resource
against the monotony of solitude. One day a gentleman of the
neighbourhood who had never thought of any thing in his life but the
chase, came to take my boys with him into the woods; he remained
sometime seated at our active but silent table; Madame Recamier
wrote a little note with her beautiful hand to this jolly sportsman,
in order that he might not be too much a stranger to the circle in
which he was placed. He excused himself from receiving it, assuring
us that he could never read writing by day-light: we laughed a
little at the disappointment which the benevolent coquetry of our
beautiful friend had met with, and thought that a billet from her
hand would not have always had the same fate. Our life passed in
this manner, without any of us, if I may judge from myself, finding
the time at all burde