r the
palace was conveyed by an aide-de-camp to the hotel, the "second Epistle
to Timothy" was a very awful contrast to its predecessor. The hapless
deputation, however, got leave to return unmolested, and betook
themselves to their homeward journey, the chief of the mission by
no means so well satisfied of his success in the part of the "Irish
Ambassador."

Now to dress for dinner. I wish I had said "No" to this same invitation.

Nothing is pleasanter when one is in health and spirits than a _petit
diner_; nothing is more distressing when one is weak, low, and dejected.
At a large party there is always a means of lying _perdu_, and neither
taking any share in the cookery or the conversation. At a small table
one must eat, drink, and be merry, though the _plat_ be your doom and
the talk be your destruction. There is no help for it; there is no
playing "supernumerary" in farce with four characters.

Is it yet too late to send an apology?--it still wants a quarter of
six, and six is the hour. I really cannot endure the fatigue and the
exhaustion.

Holland, besides, told me that any excitement would be prejudicial. Here
goes, then, for my excuse.... So! I'm glad I've done it. I feel myself
once more free to lie at ease on this ottoman and dream away the hours
undisturbed.

"Holloa! what's this, Legrelle?" "De la part de Madame la Comtesse, sir.
How provoking!--how monstrously provoking! She writes me, 'You really
must come. I will not order dinner till I see you.--Yours, &c. B.
de F------.' What a bore! and what an absurd way to incur an attack of
illness! There's nothing for it, however, but submission; and to-morrow,
if I'm able, I'll leave Paris.

"Legrelle, don't forget to order horses for tomorrow at twelve."

"What route does monsieur take?"

"Avignon--no, Strasbourg--Couilly, I think, is the first post. I should
like to see Munich once more, or, at least, its gallery. The city is
a poor thing, worthy of its people, and, I was going to say--no matter
what! Germany, in any case, for the summer, as I am sentenced to die
in Italy. I feel I am taking what the Irish call 'a long day' in not
crossing the Alps till late in autumn!"

How many places there are which one has been near enough to have visited
and somehow always neglected to see! and what a longing, craving wish to
behold them comes over the heart at such a time as this? What, then, is
"this time," that I speak it thus?

*****

How late it is! De V