We are rescued from more horrors. Thank God! these days of trembling and fear are over. Pascal Grousset was killed on the barricades. I am thankful to say that Raoul Rigault has also departed this world. Courbet, Regnaud, a promising young painter, and how many shall we know of afterward, have been shot. We hear that Auber became quite crazy and wandered out on the ramparts, and was killed with the soldiers. He deserved a better fate, my dear old friend! I am sure his heart was broken, and that that day we breakfasted with him was not his first but his last _jour de bonheur_. Seventy-two days of Communism has cost France 850,000,000 francs. DINARD, _June 18, 1871._ DEAR MOTHER,--Our peaceful life here is a great contrast to the bombs of poor dilapidated Paris. I have still the screams and bursting shells of the Faubourg St. Honoré in my ears. When I wrote of Strakosch's persisting in his idea of my singing in concerts, I did not dream that I should be telling you that I have succumbed to his tempting and stupendous proposition. It is true that I have said _yes_, and _vogue la galère!_ And the most curious thing is that the whole family sitting in council have urged me to do it. "Why not?" said Mr. Moulton, making mental calculations. "I would, if I were you," said Mrs. Moulton, overflowing with enthusiasm. "I agree," said Charles, only seeing the fun of a new experience. "But," I urged, "I doubt if I can stand on my own merits. Singing in public as an amateur is one thing, and singing as an artist is another." This wise saying was scorned by the council. I have ordered some fine dresses from Worth, and if my public don't like me they can console themselves with the thought that a look at my clothes is worth a ticket. Well, the fatal word has gone forth; I shall probably regret it, but it is too late now. Therefore, dear mother, please break the news gently to the family and the genealogical tree, whose bark, I hope, is worse than its bite. We leave for America in September. Strakosch goes before, "to work it up," he says. NEW YORK, _October._ MY DEAR MOTHER-IN-LAW,--Don't send any more letters to the Barlows'. We thought that it was better not to stay with them (pleasant as it was) any longer. There was such a commotion in that quiet house, such ringing of bells and running about. The servants were worn out attending to me and my visitors.