There is, therefore, nothing so compromising to an Englishman abroad as a countryman; except--_hélas_ that I should say so!--a countrywoman! Paris is very beautiful in spring. There is something radiant and gorgeous in the commingled splendour of a great city, with the calmer beauties of leafy foliage and the sparkling eddies of the bright river. Better, however, not to dwell longer on this theme, lest my gloomy thoughts should stray into the dark and crime-trodden alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, or the still more terrible filets de St. Cloud! How sad is it when one’s temperament should, as if instinctively, suggest the mournful view of each object! Rather let me jot down a little incident of this morning--an event which has set my heart throbbing, and my pulse fluttering, at a rate that all the Prussic acid I have learned to take cannot calm down again. There come now and then moments to the sick man, when to be well and vigorous he would consent to be poor, unfriended in the world--taking health alone for his heritage. I felt that half an hour ago--but it is gone again. And now to my adventure, for, in my unbroken dream of daily life, it seems such. I have said I am lodged at the Hôtel des Princes. How different are my quarters from those I inhabited when first I saw this city! This would entail a confession, however, and I shall make it some other day. My salon is No. 21, the first drawing-room to the right as you turn from the grand staircase, and opening by the three spacious windows on a balcony overlooking the Rue de Richlieu. It is, indeed, a very splendid apartment, as much so as immense mirrors, gilding, bronze, and or moulu can make it. There are soft couches and chairs, and ottomans too, that would inspire rest, save when the soul itself was restless. Well. I lounged out after breakfast for a short stroll along the Boulevards, where the shade of the trees and the well-watered path were most inviting. Soon wearied--I cannot walk in a crowd--I returned to the hôtel; slowly toiled up-stairs, waking the echoes with my teasing cough; and, instead of turning to the right, I went left, taking the wrong road, as I have so often done in life; and then, mistaking the numerals, I entered No. 12 instead of No. 21. Who would credit it, that the misplacement of a unit could prove so singular. There was one change alone which struck me. I could not find the book I was reading--a little volume of Auerbach’s village stories of the Schwartz-Walders. There was, however, another in its place, one that told of humble life in the provinces--not less truthful and heart-appealing--but how very unlike! It was Balzac’s story of “Eugénie Grandet,” the most touching tale I have ever read in any language. I have read it a hundred times, and ever with renewed delight. Little troubling myself to think how it came there--for, like an old and valued friend, its familiar features were always welcome--I began again to read it.