mpared to the representation of them at the
opera. Paris, by retrospection, shines from all its facets. Unless some
particular interest attaches us, as it did in Blondet's case, to scenes
honored by the steps and lighted by the eyes of a certain person, one
would envy the birds their wings and long to get back to the endless,
exciting scenes of Paris and its harrowing strifes.

The long letter of the young journalist must make most intelligent minds
suppose that he had reached, morally and physically, that particular
phase of satisfied passions and comfortable happiness which certain
winged creatures fed in Strasbourg so perfectly represent when, with
their heads sunk behind their protruding gizzards, they neither see nor
wish to see the most appetizing food. So, when the formidable letter was
finished, the writer felt the need of getting away from the gardens of
Armida and doing something to enliven the deadly void of the morning
hours; for the hours between breakfast and dinner belonged to the
mistress of the house, who knew very well how to make them pass quickly.
To keep, as Madame de Montcornet did, a man of talent in the country
without ever seeing on his face the false smile of satiety, or detecting
the yawn of a weariness that cannot be concealed, is a great triumph for
a woman. The affection which is equal to such a test certainly ought to
be eternal. It is to be wondered at that women do not oftener employ
it to judge of their lovers; a fool, an egoist, or a petty nature
could never stand it. Philip the Second himself, the Alexander of
dissimulation, would have told his secrets if condemned to a month's
tete-a-tete in the country. Perhaps this is why kings seek to live in
perpetual motion, and allow no one to see them more than fifteen minutes
at a time.

Notwithstanding that he had received the delicate attentions of one of
the most charming women in Paris, Emile Blondet was able to feel once
more the long forgotten delights of a truant schoolboy; and on the
morning of the day after his letter was written he had himself called
by Francois, the head valet, who was specially appointed to wait on him,
for the purpose of exploring the valley of the Avonne.

The Avonne is a little river which, being swollen above Conches
by numerous rivulets, some of which rise in Les Aigues, falls at
Ville-aux-Fayes into one of the large affluents of the Seine. The
geographical position of the Avonne, navigable for over twelve