At last, a beautiful morning announced to us the afflicting moment when we were to quit Paris. The postilion, who was to convey us to Rochefort, was already at the door of the house in which we lived, to conduct us to his carriage, which waited for us at the Orléans gate. Immediately an old hackney coach appeared; my father stept into it, and in an instant it was filled. The impatient coachman cracked his whip, sparks flashed from the horse's feet, and the street of Lille, which we had just quitted, was soon far behind us. On arriving before the garden of the Luxumbourg, the first rays of the morning's sun darted fiercely through the foliage, as if to say, you forsake the zephyrs in quitting this beautiful abode. We reached the Observatory, and in an instant passed the gate d'Enfer. There, as yet for a moment to breathe the air of the capital, we alighted at the Hotel du Pantheon, where we found our carriage. After a hasty breakfast, the postilion arranged our trunks, and off again we set. It was nearly seven in the morning when we quitted the gates of Paris, and we arrived that evening at the little village of d'Etampes, where our landlord, pressing us to refresh ourselves, almost burned his inn in making us an omelet with rotten eggs. The flames, ascending the old chimney, soon rose to the roof of the house, but they succeeded in extinguishing them. We were, however, regaled with a smoke which made us shed tears. It was broad day when we quitted d'Etampes; and our postilion, who had spent the greater part of the night in drinking with his comrades, was something less than polite. We reproached him, but he made light of the circumstance; for, in the evening, he was completely drunk. On the twenty-fifth of May, at ten in the morning, my father told me we were already thirty-two leagues from Paris. Thirty-two leagues! cried I; alas, so far! Whilst I made this reflection, we arrived at Orléans. Here we remained about three hours to refresh ourselves as well as our horses. We could not leave the place without visiting the statue raised in honour of Joan of Arc, that extraordinary woman, to whom the monarchy once owed its safety. On leaving Orléans, the Loire, and the fertile pastures through which it rolls its waters, excited our admiration. We had on our right the beautiful vineyards of Beaugency. The road, as far as Amboise, is delightful. I then began to think, that Paris and its environs might perhaps be forgotten, if the country of Senegal, to which we were going, was as fine as that through which we were journeying. We slept at Amboise, which, being situated at the confluence of the Loire and the Maise, presents a most agreeable appearance.