My resolve had been taken and my preparations made; it only remained for me to notify my housekeeper. I must acknowledge it was a long time before I could make up my mind to tell her I was going away. I feared her remonstrances, her railleries, her objurgations, her tears. “She is a good, kind girl,” I said to myself; “she is attacked to me; she will want to prevent me from going; and the Lord knows that when she has her mind set upon anything, gestures and cries cost her no effort. In this instance she will be sure to call the concierge, the scrubber, the mattress-maker, and the seven sons of the fruit-seller; they will all kneel down in a circle around me; they will begin to cry, and then they will look so ugly that I shall be obliged to yield, so as not to have the pain of seeing them any more.” Such were the awful images, the sick dreams, which fear marshaled before my imagination. Yes, fear--“fecund Fear,” as the poet says--gave birth to these monstrosities in my brain. For--I may as well make the confession in these private pages--I am afraid of my housekeeper. I am aware that she knows I am weak; and this fact alone is sufficient to dispel all my courage in any contest with her. Contests are of frequent occurrence; and I invariably succumb. But for all that, I had to announce my departure to Therese. She came into the library with an armful of wood to make a little fire--“une flambe,” she said. For the mornings are chilly. I watched her out of the corner of my eye while she crouched down at the hearth, with her head in the opening of the fireplace. I do not know how I then found the courage to speak, but I did so without much hesitation. I got up, and, walking up and down the room, observed in a careless tone, with that swaggering manner characteristic of cowards, “By the way, Therese, I am going to Sicily.” Having thus spoken, I awaited the consequence with great anxiety. Therese did not reply. Her head and her vast cap remained buried in the fireplace; and nothing in her person, which I closely watched, betrayed the least emotion. She poked some paper under the wood, and blew up the fire. That was all! Finally I saw her face again;--it was calm--so calm that it made me vexed. “Surely,” I thought to myself, “this old maid has no heart. She lets me go away without saying so much as AH! Can the absence of her old master really affect her so little?” “Well, then go, Monsieur,” she answered at last, “only be back here by six o’clock! There is a dish for dinner to-day which will not wait for anybody.” Naples, November 10, 1859. “Co tra calle vive, magna, e lave a faccia.”