Madame Gignoux, our neighbor at Petit Val, who is living in her other château in Brittany, sent a letter to me which I should send to Helen in Berlin, to be sent to Paul, who is in Versailles, to be sent to Mr. Washburn, in Paris, who is to give it to Henry at Petit Val. Rather roundabout way! I can't tell you how much of that sort of thing I am constantly doing for people who are afraid of doing anything for themselves; they think every one is a spy or a traitor. PARIS, _March 14, 1871._ DEAR MAMA,--You will be surprised to see that I am in Paris; but you will understand why when I tell you that I received a letter from Mrs. Moulton to this effect: "If you wish to go to Petit Val to look after the things you left there when you went to Dinard last August, you had better come to Paris without delay, as the trains are running regularly now." The trains may have been running regularly (I left Dinard the next day), but they were certainly not running on time, for we missed all connections, and only arrived at Rennes after seven o'clock, too late to catch the evening train for Paris. The fine omnibus at the station made me imagine that it belonged to an equally fine hotel, but the hotel proved to be anything but fine. It was dreadfully dirty and shabby, and filled to overflowing. It was with the greatest difficulty I was able to secure a room for myself. My grumbling maid had to content herself with the sofa. The _salle à manger_ was thronged with officers clanking their swords on the brick floor and all talking at once. I passed a sleepless night, being kept awake by the loud and incessant conversations in the corridor and the continual tramping of soldiers under my window. We started for Paris the next morning at eight o'clock. The train was crowded with people who, like myself, were eager to return home after so many months of anxious waiting. In all the stations through which we passed one saw nothing but soldiers, their ragged uniforms hanging on their emaciated forms; their feet--which had been frozen in January (poor things!)--were still bandaged, and hardly any of them possessed shoes. They did look, indeed, the picture of abject dejection and misery.