This little incident, which I have only mentioned as characteristic of the times, had no result that I know of upon our fate. Three days afterward, the two post-chaises were got in order, horses were brought from the post-house, and to my infinite satisfaction we all rolled away together out of that grim city of Paris, which will ever remain associated in my mind with memories of blood and crime. It was a fine day—one of those days in February which come as if to bid us prepare for summer, long ere summer is near, and which I think are more beautiful and striking in France, than in any other country I know. The sunshine lay softly upon the face of the country, and on the top of a tall, bare tree, near the post-house, where we first stopped to change horses, a thrush was pouring forth its evening song, and making the air thrill with melody. I got out of our own little post-chaise to call Mariette’s attention to the bird, but when I looked into their cabriolet, to my surprise I saw that Madame de Salins was weeping bitterly. The post-master approached and looked in likewise; but she had great presence of mind, and instantly beckoning the man up, she asked him some questions regarding the movements of the armies, and whether he could give her any news of Citizen Bonfin, who commanded a company in Davoust’s volunteers. The man, who seemed to compassionate her greatly, replied that he could not, and asked if she had any apprehensions regarding him. She answered that the last she had heard of her husband, was, that he had been very severely wounded, but that careful nursing might yet save his life. The good post-master was not a Parisian, nor a litterateur, and so without affecting atheism, he prayed God to bless her endeavors, and we rolled on upon our way.