So, my amiable Gabrielle, you are really interested in my letters, _though written during my English exile_, and you are curious to know whether any of my _potent spells_ can wake into life this man of marble. I candidly confess you would inspire me with an ambition to raise my poor countrymen in your opinion, if I were not restrained by the sacred sentiment of friendship, which forbids me to rival Leonora _even_ in a husband’s opinion. However, Josephine, who feels herself a party concerned ever since her battle with the Swiss, has piqued herself upon dressing me with exquisite taste. I am every day _mise à ravir_!--and with such perfection of art, that no art appears--all is negligent simplicity. I let Josephine please herself; for you know I am not bound to be frightful, because I have a friend whose husband may chance to turn his eye upon my figure, when he is tired of admiring hers. I rallied L---- the other day upon his having no eyes or ears but for his wife. Be assured I did it in such a manner that he could not be angry. Then I went on to a comparison between the _facility_ of French and English society. He admitted that there was some truth and more wit in my observations. I was satisfied. With these reasonable men, the grand point for a woman is to amuse them--they can have logic from their own sex. But, my Gabrielle, I am summoned to the _salon_, and must finish my letter another day. * * * * * Heaven! can it be a fortnight since I wrote a line to my Gabrielle!--Where was I?--“With these reasonable men the grand point for a woman is to amuse them.” True--most true! L----, believing himself only amused with my lively nonsense, indulged himself with it continually. I was to believe only what he believed. Presently he could not do without my conversation for more than two hours together. What was I to do, my Gabrielle? I walked out to avoid him. He found me in the woods--rallied me on my taste for solitude, and quoted Voltaire.