I received this morning, by a mysterious messenger, a curious document; it looks like a series of carriage-wheels, but it is a cipher from Prince Metternich, who is in Bordeaux, and is dated the 1st of May. It took me a long time to puzzle it out: "Vous conseille de partir; pire viendra. Pauline à Vienne; moi triste et tourmenté." Very good advice, but rather difficult to follow now. Never has Paris led such a sober life; there is no noise in the almost empty and dimly lighted streets; there are no drunkards, and, strange to say, one hears of no thefts. There are, I believe, one or two small theaters open, most of the small cafés, and a great many wine-shops. The soldiers slink about, looking ashamed of their shabby uniforms and ragged appearance. Thiers has done all in his power to conciliate the different parties, but has now concluded that Paris must be conquered by the troops of Versailles. Every day there comes more disturbing news. How will it all end? When shall we get out of this muddle? _En attendant,_ we live in a continual fright. A note came yesterday from Mr. Washburn (I don't know if he is in Paris or not). He writes: "Nothing could be worse than the present state of affairs. I wish you were out of Paris; hope you are well," etc. If we could get a message to him, we would tell him that we are well enough, and have enough to eat; that Mademoiselle Wissembourg and I tremble all day; but that Mr. Moulton has not enjoyed himself so much since the last revolution. Slippers all day if he likes. _May 8th._ Though I have so much time on my hands (I never have had so much), I really have not the heart to write of all the horrors we hear of and the anxieties of our daily life. Besides, you will probably have heard, through unprejudiced newspapers, all that is happening here, and know the true facts before this dismal letter reaches you. And who knows if letters leave Paris regularly in the chaotic state of disorder and danger we are now in? I cannot write history, because I am living in it. I can only tell you the news which Louis gathers when he does his errands, coming home with the wildest tales, of which we can only believe the half. I have read somewhere that some one lived "in a dead white dawn of thought." I have not the slightest idea what "a dead white dawn of thought" can be (I have so little imagination); but whatever it is, I feel as if I was living in it now. I don't remember in all my life to have stagnated like this. We are glad Mrs. Moulton left Paris when she did, and is now in a bourne of safety at Dinard, taking my place with the children while I take hers in the Rue de Courcelles. This is no sacrifice on my part; the existence we are leading now interests me intensely, being so utterly different from anything I have ever known, and I do not regret having this little glimpse into the unknown. I cannot go to the ambulances, as we (Mademoiselle and I) do not dare to walk, and driving is out of the question.