IS, _Sept._ 14, 1765.

I am but two days old here, Madam, and I doubt I wish I was really so,
and had my life to begin, to live it here. You see how just I am, and
ready to make _amende honorable_ to your ladyship. Yet I have seen very
little. My Lady Hertford has cut me to pieces, and thrown me into a
caldron with tailors, periwig-makers, snuff-box-wrights, milliners, &c.,
which really took up but little time; and I am come out quite new, with
everything but youth. The journey recovered me with magic expedition. My
strength, if mine could ever be called strength, is returned; and the
gout going off in a minuet step. I will say nothing of my spirits, which
are indecently juvenile, and not less improper for my age than for the
country where I am; which, if you will give me leave to say it, has a
thought too much gravity. I don't venture to laugh or talk nonsense, but
in English.

Madame Geoffrin came to town but last night, and is not visible on
Sundays; but I hope to deliver your ladyship's letter and packet
to-morrow. Mesdames d'Aiguillon, d'Egmont, and Chabot, and the Duc de
Nivernois are all in the country. Madame de Boufflers is at l'Isle
Adam, whither my Lady Hertford is gone to-night to sup, for the first
time, being no longer chained down to the incivility of an ambassadress.
She returns after supper; an irregularity that frightens me, who have
not yet got rid of all my barbarisms. There is one, alas! I never shall
get over--the dirt of this country: it is melancholy, after the purity
of Strawberry! The narrowness of the streets, trees clipped to resemble
brooms, and planted on pedestals of chalk, and a few other points, do
not edify me. The French Opera, which I have heard to-night, disgusted
me as much as ever; and the more for being followed by the Devin de
Village, which shows that they can sing without cracking the drum of
one's ear. The scenes and dances are delightful: the Italian comedy
charming. Then I am in love with _treillage_ and fountains, and will
prove it at Strawberry. Chantilly is so exactly what it was when I saw
it above twenty years ago, that I recollected the very position of
Monsieur le Duc's chair and the gallery. The latter gave me the first
idea of mine; but, presumption apart, mine is a thousand times prettier.
I gave my Lord Herbert's compliments to the statue of his friend the
Constable; and, waiting some time for the concierge, I called out, _Ou
est Vatel_?

In short, Madam, being