"I resume my pen to tell you of a strange circumstance which occurred to-day. When I broke off so suddenly, I found some visitors awaiting me. Visiting in Paris is insignificant and meaningless, performed on certain fixed days. Conversation on these occasions is commonplace. People only talk of the pleasure of meeting, and slander is so much the vogue that it is not prudent to leave certain rooms until every one else has gone, lest you should be hacked to pieces by those left behind. My father-in-law came into the room and gave some life to the conversation. The Prince was not alone, for Count Monte-Leone came with him. Why, dear mother, should I conceal from you, that the presence of the Count causes always an invincible distress? This man is so decided and resolute that he never seemed to me like other people. He seems half god and half demon. His keen and often expressive glance, his firm voice made mild by emotion, the _tout ensemble_ of his character, seems to call him to great crimes or sublime actions. "The Prince said, 'Do you know, Aminta, that the Count is the only person in Paris whom I have to beg to come to see you? I have absolutely to use violence. I had just now almost to use violence to bring him hither.' "'The Prince, Madame,' said the Count, respectfully, 'looks on respect as reserve. The pleasure of seeing you is too great for me to run the risk of losing it by abusing the privilege.' "'Bah! bah!' said the Prince, 'mere gallantry, nothing more. We _emigrés_, from associating with the English, have lost some of our peculiarities; and I, at least, have contracted one excellent custom. When an Englishman says to a man, "my house is yours," he absolutely means what he says, and the privilege should be used. Your host looks on you as a part of his family, and people of the neighborhood esteem you as much a part of the household as the old grandfather's chair is. You go, come, sit at the table, eat and drink, as if you were at home. This generous hospitality pleases me, because it recalls that of our own ancestors.' "'Brother,' said the Countess, 'this hospitality can never be acclimated in France, especially in households where there are as pretty women as in ours.' "'Sister, such privileges are accorded only to people of the honor of whom we are well-assured, like the Count. Besides, travellers like ourselves are hard to please in beauty. Not that the Marquise is not beautiful; but if you had been as we were at Ceprano, if you had only read the interesting chapter I have written in relation to that country, you would see that many perfections are needed to wound hearts that are so cosmopolitan as ours.'