How much might I say of all the many departures which preceded or followed that of the 22d of July!--departures, peaceful or wretched, according to the dispositions of those who departed. Terribly sad they were, even when the known character and all external signs denoted Christian resignation and a Christian death, but exceedingly distressing when the contrary was the case, and when the condemned appeared, as it were, to pass from a hell in this world to that of the other world. On the 22d of July, which was Tuesday, I was at my house between eight and ten o'clock in the morning. I was just on the point of going out when I heard a knock on my door; I opened it and saw the children of the house of Noailles and their tutor. The children had the gayety natural to their age,--gayety which was to be changed to sadness by the losses they were about to undergo, and the fear of experiencing still others. They were going to walk. The tutor, sad and melancholy, was pale and troubled. 'Let us go into your chamber,' said he, 'and leave the children in your study.' We went into the chamber; he cast himself into a chair. 'It is all over, my friend; the ladies are before the Revolutionary tribunal. I have come to summon you to keep your word. I am to take the children to Vincennes, and there see little Euphémie. In the park I will prepare the poor children for their terrible loss.' Prepared as I was myself for this dreadful blow, I was overwhelmed. The frightful situation of the mothers, of the children, of their worthy tutor, this gayety to be followed by such depth of sorrow, the little sister, Euphémie, then about four years old,--all this arose before my imagination. I recovered myself; and after some inquiries, replies, and other sad details, I said, 'I will now change my dress. What an errand! Pray to God that he may give me the strength to execute it.' We arose and went out into the study, where we found the children amusing themselves innocently, gay and contented as could be. The sight of them, the thought of their ignorance, and of what they were about to learn, the interview with their sister which would follow, and that which we had just gone through, made the contrast more striking, and afflicted the heart. Left alone after their departure, I felt myself overwhelmed and wearied. 'My God,' I cried, 'have pity upon them and upon me!' I changed my clothes and went upon certain errands, carrying in my heart a crushing weight. I went to the palace between one o'clock and two, and tried to enter; it was impossible. I got some news from one who was coming out of the Court. I still doubted the reality of what he told me. The illusion of hope was finally destroyed by what he went on to say, and I could no longer have any doubts. I renewed my walk. It took me to the Faubourg St. Antoine, and with what thoughts, what inward agitation, what secret fear, all joined to a violent headache!