The average of the receipts was 9,000 francs, and I left London with regret—I who had left it with so much pleasure the first time. But London is a city apart; its charm unveils little by little. The first impression for a Frenchman or woman is that of keen suffering, of mortal _ennui_. Those tall houses with sash windows without curtains; those ugly monuments, all in mourning with the dust and grime, and black with greasy dirt; those flower sellers at the corners of all the streets with faces sad as the rain and bedraggled feathers in their hats and lamentable clothing; the black mud of the streets; the low sky; the funereal mirth of drunken women hanging on to men just as drunk; the wild dancing of disheveled children round the street organs, as numerous as the omnibuses—all that caused, twenty-five years ago, an indefinite suffering to a Parisian. But little by little one finds that the profusion of the squares is restful to the eyes; that the beauty of the aristocratic ladies effaces the image of the flower sellers. The constant movement of Hyde Park, and especially of Rotten Row, fills the heart with gayety. The broad English hospitality which was manifested from the first moment of making an acquaintance; the wit of the men, which compares favorably with the wit of Frenchmen; and their gallantry, much more respectful and therefore much more flattering, left no regrets in me for French gallantry. But I prefer our pale mud to the London black mud; and our windows opening in the centre to the horrible sash windows. I find also that nothing marks more clearly the difference of character of the two nations than their respective windows. Ours open wide, the sun enters into our houses even to the heart of the dwelling, the air sweeps away all the dust and all the microbes. They shut in the same manner, simply, as they open. English windows open only halfway, either the top half or the bottom half. One may even have the pleasure of opening them a little at the top and a little at the bottom, but not at all in the middle. The sun cannot enter openly, nor the air. The window keeps its selfish and perfidious character. I hate the English windows. But now I love London, and—is there any need to add?—its inhabitants. Since my first visit I have returned there twenty-one times, and the public has always remained faithful and affectionate. After this first test of my freedom, I felt more sure of life than before. Although I was very weakly of constitution, the possibility of doing as I wanted without let or hindrance and without control, calmed my nerves; and with a strengthened nervous system, my health, which had been weakened by perpetual irritations and by excessive work, recovered its tone. I reposed on the laurels which I had gathered myself—and I slept better. Sleeping better I commenced to eat better. And great was the astonishment of my little court when they saw their idol come back from London round and rosy.