understand how
much truth there is in this familiar fragment that is sung in every
drawing-room. Yes, _there alone to live my heart doth yearn_. Yes,
at Nice, in my beloved villa. People may go through the world. They
will find sublime landscapes, impressive mountains, frightful gulfs,
wild beauties of nature, picturesque towns, great cities; but, on
returning to Nice one would say that elsewhere it was beautiful,
magnificent! but here it is pleasant, attractive, congenial; here
one wants to stay; here one is alone and surrounded, hidden and in
sight, as one desires. Nowhere else does one breathe as freely, as
joyously. Nowhere else is there this extraordinary blending of the
real and the artificial, the simple and the exquisite! Finally, what
shall I say? Nice is my city. I am going, but I shall return.

_Go, but still regret it,
Regret has its charms,_

as one of the pleasant simpletons called poets has said.

To-morrow will be Christmas, and I am planning a joke with C----. We
are going to buy a pair of huge slippers, a jockey, reins for
driving (suitable for a child), and two little sheep. We will put
these things into the slippers, make a package, and under the cord
slip a letter written in this form:

"Santa Claus has found little E----very good, and hopes he will
continue to be. The toys are for little E----, the slippers for
little 'papa.'" And on the envelope one may guess what. But we shall
not send it, Dina is going to disguise herself as a boy, and, with
her blue spectacles and pale complexion, she appears like a
professor of mathematics. C---- and I will also make ourselves
unrecognisable and, at eight o'clock, go to the club, and tell the
coachman to give the package to the janitor from M. E----. We
laughed as we used to do. What amuses me is to see a serious woman
play pranks with me.

This morning we had a call from a Sister T----. She left two
visiting cards. _The Sisters of the Good Shepherd._ I took one,
added P.P.C. and, with an address written on it, sent it to Tour.

Saturday, December 25th, 1875.

_Ah! son felica! Ah! son rapita!_

Find me a language which expresses thought with so much enthusiasm.
So I use it to define my condition. It is heavenly weather,
everybody is out of doors, in spite of my vigil yesterday, I look
pretty.

I go to walk enchanted, happy, I sing "Mignon" softly and everything
seems beautiful to me. Everybody looks at me so pleasantly, those
whom