s soon as I
got into my carriage, though half asleep, I noticed that my feet were
not supported as usual. The horses were just off. I cried out to have
them stopped, and then called to the porter for my jewel-case,
purposely making enough noise to wake the mistress of the house. And I
was successful, for, after some evasions by the porter, the case was
brought out. It had been found in a stable at the back of the yard,
all covered with hay. The incident had given my man time to arrive,
and I drove away in high spirits, as may well be imagined, at having
recovered both my servant and my jewel-case. I record the adventure
thinking it may be useful as a lesson to absent-minded travellers.

From Berlin I went to Dresden, and then on to Brunswick, where I spent
a few days with the Riviere family. Between Brunswick and Weimar my
postilion lost the way, and we were stuck for hours in the heaviest
soil. I remember that as a truce to my impatience--and more
particularly to my appetite--I gathered up some of that wretched earth
and tried to model a head with it; I really achieved something that
looked like a face. Though furnished with letters for the court at
Weimar, I did not present them, but after a day's rest proceeded to
Gotha. Here I met an old friend I had known in Paris, Baron Grimm, who
very civilly attended to all my wants for the journey, which I did not
again interrupt until I reached Frankfort. We were obliged to wait at
Frankfort six days, during which I was very much bored. To pass the
time I mended my old shirts, and the Lord knows what sort of sewing
that was! On reaching Paris I engaged a chambermaid, who remarked,
when she saw my mending, "Any one can see that Madame has been in a
savage country, for this is sewn like the devil." I laughed and
informed her that it was my own handiwork. The poor girl, quite
embarrassed, was eager to take back what she had said, but I reassured
her by acknowledging that I had never been an adept with the needle.

I will not attempt to describe my feelings at setting foot on the soil
of France, from which I had been absent twelve years. I was stirred by
terror, grief and joy in turn. I mourned the friends who had died on
the scaffold; but I was to see those again who still lived. This
France, that I was entering once more, had been the scene of horrible
crimes. But this France was my country!

CHAPTER XV

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW

PARIS AFTER THE REVOLUTION -- RENEWIN