My life is so full of Barty Josselin that I can hardly be said to have ever had an existence apart from his; and I can think of no easier or better way to tell Barty's history than just telling my own--from the days I first knew him--and in my own way; that is, in the best telegraphese I can manage--picking each precious word with care, just as though I were going to cable it, as soon as written, to Boston or New York, where the love of Barty Josselin shines with even a brighter and warmer glow than here, or even in France; and where the hate of him, the hideous, odious odium theologicum--the _sæva indignatio_ of the Church--that once burned at so white a heat, has burnt itself out at last, and is now as though it had never been, and never could be again. P. S.--(an after-thought): And here, in case misfortune should happen to me before this book comes out as a volume, I wish to record my thanks to my old friend Mr. du Maurier for the readiness with which he has promised to undertake, and the conscientiousness with which he will have performed, his share of the work as editor and illustrator. I also wish to state that it is to my beloved god-daughter, Roberta Beatrix Hay (née Josselin), that I dedicate this attempt at a biographical sketch of her illustrious father. Robert Maurice. Part First "De Paris à Versailles, loo, là, De Paris à Versailles-- Il y a de belles allées, Vive le Roi de France! Il y a de belles allées, Vivent les écoliers!" One sultry Saturday afternoon in the summer of 1847 I sat at my desk in the junior school-room, or _salle d'études des petits_, of the Institution F. Brossard, Rond-point de l'Avenue de St.-Cloud; or, as it is called now, Avenue du Bois de Boulogne--or, as it was called during the Second Empire, Avenue du Prince Impérial, or else de l'Impératrice; I'm not sure. There is not much stability in such French names, I fancy; but their sound is charming, and always gives me the nostalgia of Paris--Royal Paris, Impérial Paris, Republican Paris!... whatever they may call it ten or twelve years hence. Paris is always Paris, and always will be, in spite of the immortal Haussmann, both for those who love it and for those who don't. All the four windows were open. Two of them, freely and frankly, on to the now deserted play-ground, admitting the fragrance of lime and syringa and lilac, and other odors of a mixed quality. Two other windows, defended by an elaborate network of iron wire and a formidable array of spiked iron rails beyond, opened on to the Rond-point, or meeting of the cross-roads--one of which led northeast to Paris through the Arc de Triomphe; the other three through woods and fields and country lanes to such quarters of the globe as still remain. The world is wide.