or jewels they could lay their hands on. One evening the Seine had overflowed and we were obliged to walk a long distance—all around Sèvres—and got to Versailles very late and quite exhausted with the jolting and general discomfort. After that we went out by train—which put us at the Préfecture at ten o'clock. It wasn't very convenient as there was a great rush for carriages when we arrived at Versailles, still everybody did it. We generally wore black or dark dresses with a lace veil tied over our heads, and of course only went when it was fine. The evening was pleasant enough—one saw all the political men, the marshal's personal friends of the droite went to him in the first days of his presidency,—(they rather fell off later)—the Government and Republicans naturally and all the diplomatic corps. There were not many women, as it really was rather an effort to put one's self into a low-necked dress and start off directly after dinner to the Gare St. Lazare, and have rather a rush for places. We were always late, and just had time to scramble into the last carriage.

I felt very strange—an outsider—all the first months, but my husband's friends were very nice to me and after a certain time I was astonished to find how much politics interested me. I learned a great deal from merely listening while the men talked at dinner. I suppose I should have understood much more if I had read the papers regularly, but I didn't begin to do that until W. had been minister for some time, and then worked myself into a nervous fever at all the opposition papers said about him. However, all told, the attacks were never very vicious. He had never been in public life until after the war when he was named deputy and joined the Assemblée Nationale at Bordeaux—which was an immense advantage to him. He had never served any other government, and was therefore perfectly independent and was bound by no family traditions or old friendships—didn't mind the opposition papers at all—not even the caricatures. Some of them were very funny. There was one very like him, sitting quite straight and correct on the box of a brougham, "John Cocher Anglais n'a jamais versé, ni accroché" (English coachman who has never upset nor run into anything).

There were a few political salons. The Countess de R. received every evening—but only men—no women were ever asked. The wives rather demurred at first, but the men went all the same—as one saw every one there and heard all the latest political gossip. Another hostess was the Princess Lize Troubetskoi. She was a great friend and admirer of Thiers—was supposed to give him a great deal of information from foreign governments. She was very eclectic in her sympathies, and every one went to her, not only French, but all foreigners of any distinction who passed through Paris. She gave herself a great deal of trouble for her friends, but also used them when she wanted anything. One of the stories which was always told of the Foreign Office was her "petit paquet," which she wanted to send by the valise to Berlin, when the Comte de St. Vallier was French ambassador there. He agreed willingly to receive the package addressed to him, which proved to be a grand piano.

The privilege of sending packages abroad by the valise of the foreign affairs was greatly abused when W. became Minister of Foreign Affairs. He made various changes, one of which was that the valise should be absolutely restricted to official papers and documents, which really was perhaps well observed.

The Countess de Ségur received every Saturday night. It was really an Orleanist salon, as they were devoted friends of the Orléans family, but one saw all the moderate Republicans there and the centre gauche (which struggled so long to keep together and be a moderating influence, but has long been swallowed up in the ever-increasing flood of radicalism) and a great many literary men, members of the Institute, Academicians, etc. They had a fine old house entre cour et jardin, with all sorts of interesting pictures and souvenirs. Countess de S. also received every day before three o'clock. I often went and was delighted when I could find her alone. She was very clever, very original, had known all sorts of people, and it was most interesting to hear her talk about King Louis Philippe's court, the Spanish marriages, the death of the Duc d'Orléans, the Coup d'Etat of Louis Napoléon, etc. When she first began to receive, during the reign of Louis Philippe, the feeling was very bitter between the Legitimists (extreme Royalist party) and the Orleanists. The Duc d'Orléans often came to them on Saturday evenings and always in a good deal of state, with handsome carriage, aides-de-camp, etc. She warned her Legitimist friends when she knew he was coming (but she didn't always know) and said she never had any trouble or disagreeable scenes. Every one was perfectly respectful to the duke, but the extreme Legitimists went away at once.

We went quite often to Monsieur and Madame Thiers, who received every evening in their big gloomy house in the Place St. Georges. It was a political centre,—all the Republican party went there, and many of his old friends, Orleanists, who admired his great intelligence, while disapproving his politics,—literary men, journalists, all the diplomatists and distinguished strangers. He had people at dinner every night and a small reception afterward,—Madame Thiers and her sister, Mademoiselle Dosne, doing the honours for him. I believe both ladies were very intelligent, but I can't truthfully say they had any charm of manner. They never looked pleased to see any one, and each took comfortable little naps in their armchairs after dinner—the first comers had sometimes rather embarrassing entrances,—but I am told they held very much to their receptions. Thiers was wonderful; he was a very old man when I knew him, but his eyes were very bright and keen, his voice strong, and he would talk all the evening without any appearance of fatigue. He slept every afternoon for two hours, and was quite rested and alert by dinner time. It was an interesting group of men that stood around the little figure in the drawing-room after dinner. He himself stood almost always leaning against the mantelpiece. Prince Orloff, Russian ambassador, was one of the habitués of the salon, and I was always delighted when he would slip away from the group of men and join the ladies in Madame Thiers's salon, which was less interesting. He knew everybody, French and foreign, and gave me most amusing and useful little sketches of all the celebrities. It was he who told me of old Prince Gortschakoff's famous phrase when he heard of Thiers's death—(he died at St. Germain in 1877)—"Encore une lumière éteinte quand il y en a si peu qui voient clair,"—(still another light extinguished, when there are so few who see clearly). Many have gone of that group,—Casimir Périer, Léon Say, Jules Ferry, St. Vallier, Comte Paul de Ségur, Barthélemy St. Hilaire,—but others remain, younger men who were then beginning their political careers and were eager to drink in lessons and warnings from the old statesman, who fought gallantly to the last.

I found the first winter in Paris as the wife of a French deputy rather trying, so different from the easy, pleasant life in Rome. That has changed, too, of course, with United Italy and Rome the capital, but it was a small Rome in our days, most informal. I don't ever remember having written an invitation all the years we lived in Rome. Everybody led the same life and we saw each other all day, hunting, riding, driving, in the villas in the afternoon, generally finishing at the Pincio, where there was music. All the carriages drew up and the young men came and talked to the women exactly as if they were at the opera or in a ballroom. When we had music or danced at our house, we used to tell some well-known man to say "on danse chez Madame King ce soir." That was all. Paris society is much stiffer,