grated. The fashionable foreigners who have taken up their residence here live on the Champs Elysées, through which we are about to drive."
It proved to be a very beautiful avenue, with one road in it for driving, one for equestrians, and two for foot passengers, shaded by magnificent trees.
Thence we went to what was once the summer palace of the kings, but is now used by the governor-general for a residence during part of the year. There is a charming little out-of-door theatre connected with this palace. The stage is on the shore of a lovely lake, and seats for the audience are on the opposite shore.
Altogether the day has been a busy one. Now night has come, and I am sitting alone in the dingy parlor, which looks out on the muddy street.
The others have gone to the theatre. I pleaded fatigue, and induced them to leave me. The two flickering candles cast but a pale light on my page, and I shall be obliged to give up writing. Then there will be nothing for me to do but to think.
Tuesday Morning.
A faint streak of sunlight makes its way in at my window, and there is a blinding glow in my heart. What have I done to deserve all this?
Last night, as I closed my journal, and sat in that comfortless room, waiting for something, I knew not what, there was a knock at the door. Following my permission to enter, the door opened, and Chilton Thurber appeared.
