Madame Lefaivre and I have each received diplomas and testimonials from the Red Cross, and a very polite note from Madame de Palomo. It was a curious and salutary experience in things human. The ambassador sent N. a really beautiful letter of appreciation. He has a quite perfect epistolary turn--finished off by a very chic signature, and has been all that a chief could be during the long, strange Mexican months, while Mrs. Wilson has been the kindest, most considerate of friends. _October 5th._ This morning I went up to Chapultepec to say good-by to Madame Madero. As I drove up the winding way in the white morning the flowers were shining softly along the embankments, the trees were feathery, unsubstantial, the birds singing "like to burst their little throats." It might have been the road to Paradise instead of to the abode of care. I went in through the great iron gate, the guard saluting, across the flat, stone terrace where some cadets were at drill, and got out at the glass doors leading up to the big stairway. The President was standing there as I drove up, his auto waiting to take him to the palace to a Cabinet meeting. I thought he looked slightly--very slightly--troubled, though I had a feeling that his head was still in the morning clouds of the dazzling day. He wished me a _bon voyage_ and _prompt retour_ and drove away. Our personal relations with them both have always been most friendly.[66] I imagine there has been little or no change in his psychology along the lines of practical statecraft. His true habitat is the world of fancy, where he feels himself protected and led on by benign powers as definitely as was Tobias by the angel. A state of mind like that can be very compelling, and he _may_ witness what the unkind say is his pet ambition--his own apotheosis. The dim progression of Mexican events seems to have left his spirits untouched, though his fleshly being must be a mass of black-and-blue spots from the hard facts he bumps into. "One man with a dream at pleasure," but I felt like leaving him a pocket edition of _Le Prince_. I thought Madame Madero showed the strain of that climb from obscurity and prison up the _via triumphalis_ to the presidential peaks. The flood of morning light, as we sat on the terrace, did not spare her worn and anxious face. I have an idea that she is very practical, but it is not her practicality, but her husband's dreams, that brought them to Chapultepec. It's a situation to discourage common sense.