Was it intentional, or was it mere chance? I know not, but like the day when for the first time I saw her on board the Russian frigate, Catherine wore a gauzy white gown and a lace head-dress ornamented with a spray of red geranium. The trials through which she had passed had made her fall away, but she was still beautiful, and even more lovely than beautiful. Her figure, as heretofore, was elegant and stately; her countenance noble, gracious, and pensive; her large, soft eyes of a perfect blue were fringed with long, dark lashes; the heavy tresses of her jet black hair framed her brow, lofty and sad, and her face paled by sorrow. Irene, like her mother, was dressed in white; her long dark hair was tied with ribbons and fell to her waist, and her lovely face, though still pensive and sad, showed scarcely any traces of her recent sufferings. Catherine's first impulse was to take her child in her arms, and, placing her in mine, she said, with great emotion, "Is she not now your Irene also?" And amid her tears her eyes shone with joy and gratitude. There are emotions which one cannot attempt to describe, for they are as vast as the infinite. This first outburst of happiness passed, Madame de Fersen said to me, "Now I must show you to your apartment." I offered Catherine my arm, Irene took my hand, and allowed them to lead me. For some time we kept silent. After following a long avenue, rapidly becoming dark as the sun sank below the horizon, we came to a clearing on the outskirts of the wood. "Here is your cottage," said Madame de Fersen. My cottage was a sort of Swiss chalet, half hidden in a mass of pink acacias, of linden-trees and lilacs. It was built on the edge of a small lake, on a foundation of great boulders of that flinty rock found in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. This structure having been erected as a point of observation, every advantage had been taken to make the most of its charming position. A thick carpet of periwinkles, of ivy, of moss, and wild strawberry covered almost entirely the whitish rocks, and from each cranny sprouted a tuft of iris, of rhododendron, or heather. On the other side of the lake a beautiful lawn, surrounded by the woods, rose in a gentle incline up to the front of the house occupied by Madame de Fersen, and which might be seen from a distance. The sight was limited on all sides by a ring of verdure, formed by the thick woods surrounding the high walls of the park, and hiding them completely. One might have wished more variety in the prospect; but as our life at the Grove was to be surrounded by the most profound mystery, this extensive and impenetrable barrier of leafage was very precious. After a few minutes we reached the foot of the steps leading to the cottage. Madame de Fersen drew a small key from her belt and opened the front door.