opt on quitting France.
Should I return to my father, or should I go into Germany? My father
would have welcomed his poor bird, ruffled by the storm, with
ineffable goodness; but I dreaded the disgust of returning, sent
back in this manner, to a country, which I was accused of finding
rather monotonous. I was also desirous of exhibiting myself, by the
kind reception which I had been promised in Germany, superior to the
outrage I had received from the first consul; and of placing in
public contrast the kind reception of the ancient dynasties, with
the rude impertinence of that which was preparing to subjugate
France. This movement of self-love triumphed, for my misfortune; I
should have again seen my father, if I had returned to Geneva.

I requested Joseph to ascertain if I might go into Prussia, for it
was necessary for me to be at least certain, that the French
ambassador would not reclaim me abroad as a Frenchwoman, while in
France I was proscribed as a foreigner. Joseph went in consequence
to St. Cloud. I was obliged to wait his answer at a public-house, at
two leagues from Paris, not daring to return to my own house in the
city. A whole day passed before this answer reached me. Not wishing
to attract notice by remaining longer at the house where I was, I
made a tour of the walls of Paris in search of another, at the same
distance of two leagues, but on a different road. This wandering
life, at a few steps from my friends and my own residence,
occasioned me such painful sensations as I cannot recollect without
shuddering. The room is still present to me; the window where I
passed the whole day, looking out for the messenger, a thousand
painful details, which misfortune always draws after it, the extreme
generosity of some friends, the veiled calculations of others,
altogether put my mind in such a cruel state of agitation, as I
could not wish to my greatest enemy. At last this message, on which
I still placed some hopes, arrived. Joseph sent me some excellent
letters of recommendation for Berlin, and bid me adieu in a most
noble and touching manner. I was obliged, therefore, to depart.
Benjamin Constant was good enough to accompany me; but as he also
was very fond of Paris, I felt extremely for the sacrifice he made
me. Every step the horses advanced made me ill, and when the
postillions boasted of having driven me quickly, I could not help
sighing at the disagreeable service they were rendering me. In this
way I t