The French fêtes are beating their full at the Tivoli Eliseo. They seem to celebrate the 14th of July from the 6th to the 20th. The Lefaivres invisible, except to their colony. For the sake of _la nation amie_, I put my head inside yesterday--and was met with a cloud of confetti and swarms of _vendeuses_. Bands were playing, and there was dancing at one end, and everywhere a lively selling of objects for the French _œuvres de bienfaisance_ in Mexico. The celebrated Buen Tono cigarette-manufactory had outdone itself in generosity, its booth being the _clou_. Last night there was a patriotic performance at the Teatro Colon. Kilometers of tricolor and a very demonstrative colony filled the huge place to overflowing. We got there just as the Mexican national hymn was sounding, and the President and his wife, with the Vice-President, were being ushered into the great central loge, where Monsieur and Madame Lefaivre were waiting to receive them bowered in red and white and blue flowers and lights, with a great tricolor floating beneath. After the last singing of the "Marseillaise" we went in to speak to them and found the President saying to the minister: "_C'est Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité que je voudrais voir dirigeant les destinées du Mexique_," while a look as remote as the poles came into his eyes. Monsieur Lefaivre, for the sake of the vast French interests to be safeguarded, has always cultivated the friendliest relations with Madero--hoping against hope that the situation may develop elements of stability. Madero is obsessed by French political maxims, but without any understanding of that very practical genius which enables the _doux pays de France_ to turn ideas into actualities. The Encyclopedists, however, are having quite a revival in "glorious gory Mexico." We came home unconvinced, yet vaguely hopeful, under a blaze of constellations set in wondrous relief against great black spaces. _July 17th._ I have just closed George Moore's _Ave Atque Vale_. A new book by him continues to be a delicious intellectual repast. I read it in rather a miserly manner, knowing there cannot be many more, not tearing its heart out as I so often do with books. He is nearing the inevitable departure on that last journey--and he will not return to write epigrams about it. _July 19th._ I am scribbling this in the lovely old _patio_ of San Joaquin, out beyond the hacienda of Morales, sitting on a comfortably slanted grave--slab, on which I can just distinguish a bishop's miter and a faint tracing of the date--17 something and _requiescat in pace_. Delicate mosses, bits of cactus, and a tiny, vine-like, yellow flower make it a thing of beauty.