, and I saw the handsomest women of the
period, first among them Mme. Regnault herself, and next Mme.
Visconti, so remarkable for her beauty of both figure and face. While
amusing myself with looking over all these lovely ladies, some one
sitting in front of me turned round. She was so exquisite that I could
not help exclaiming, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" It was Mme.
Jouberthon, then portionless, who afterward married Lucien Bonaparte.
I also saw a number of French generals at this ball. Macdonald,
Marmont and several others were pointed out to me. In fact, this was a
new society.

A few days after my return Mme. Bonaparte called upon me one morning.
She spoke of the balls at which we had been together before the
Revolution; she was most cordial, and even invited me to dinner at the
First Consul's. However, the date of this dinner was never mentioned.

My friend Robert soon paid me a visit, and so did the Brongniarts, and
Menageot. I was very deeply touched with the joy testified by the
friends and acquaintances who crowded to see me every day. But the
pleasure of greeting them all was bitterly mingled with sorrow at
learning of many deaths I was ignorant of, for not an individual came
who had not lost a mother, a husband, or some relation.

And I had another trial to undergo, worse than all the rest. Good
manners demanded a visit to my odious stepfather. He still lived at
Neuilly, in a small house bought by my father, where I had often been
in my early youth. Everything in the place reminded me of my poor
mother and my happy days with her. I found her workbasket just as she
had left it. In short, the visit was the more sad for me as I was
mournfully inclined. Going to Neuilly, I for the first time recrossed
the Louis XV. square, where I still seemed to see the blood of a host
of noble victims. My brother, who was with me, reproached himself for
not having made our carriage take a different route, since I was
suffering beyond belief. At this very day I never pass that square
without calling up the horrors it has witnessed--I cannot control my
imagination.

The first time I went to the play the house looked exceedingly dull to
me. Accustomed as I had been, in France and abroad, to see every one
powdered, those dark heads and those men in dark clothes made a
melancholy picture. You would have thought the audience had assembled
to go to a funeral.

In general, Paris had a less lively appearance to me. The streets