“For a whole week I’ve been thinking sadly of to-morrow. The little circle of people I know best were to play a little comedy for the King of Poland. I thought that the 16th was the day they had fixed on. The idea came into my head at a party--a supper-party, on Thursday evening, at the Prince Kowakin’s. I never like to speak of my feelings and my memories; one must suffer in silence. I was quite determined not to go, Charlotte; you won’t, I hope, imagine that I debated _that_ for a moment; but I was worried, for I didn’t quite know how I was going to get out of it without saying why. A lady, who is always very very kind to me, saw by my face that I was unhappy about something. ‘What is it, _chou_?’ she said to me. ‘You’re sad.’ I said, ‘Oh no! it’s nothing.’ ‘But I see you; I see there’s something wrong.’ And at last I _had_ to tell her.... The little entertainment came off yesterday. It was charming, but it made me so sad that I could not hide my sadness. All things of that kind have a most curious effect upon me quite different from what they have of other people. Still, I must admit (the Comedy was well acted, by people whom I see a great deal of), I was interested--very much insulted; and yet, when it was over, there was nothing but melancholy in my heart. I came home to bed, and to thoughts of Her and you; and this morning, I had an immense letter from you which I’ll answer to-morrow. I have read it; and I was very near being late for a long long mass--it took two hours. This evening, I had intended to spend here, all by myself. I refused a supper invitation from a kind young woman of whom M. de Cl. will tell you; and I meant to return here. Another lady (the one I mentioned first) sent her husband to tell me that she was ill, and that she would be alone and would I not come? So when I had been to a tea-party that I was engaged for, I did go there, but indeed I was very sad, and more silent than usual. (How people can treat me as they do in this country, I don’t know--they are certainly most kind). I was determined, at any rate, to leave the party before ten o’clock. They tried to prevent me, but I insisted. At ten o’clock I put on my gloves, but they said: ‘You shan’t go!’ and at last the mistress of the house, thinking of what I had confided to her a couple of days before, said to me: ‘What day is to-day?’... Seeing that she had guessed, I said, turning away with my poor heart swelling: ‘Don’t speak to me of the day!’... I came back here alone to weep for my Queen, and to implore God to make me worthy to be with her again, and that soon--if he will indeed permit me to see her again, where _she_ surely is. I have much to atone for--I feel it, know it; but I _do_ in truth even now atone for much. I swear to you, Charlotte, I have never dared to put into words with you what you speak of to me to-day,--and with an ‘_again_’ underlined. Do you think that _I_ wished it to be