A delightful conversational pell-mell then followed, which introduced me to all the horses, all the dogs, and all the ladies of the neighbourhood. It would not be a bad thing for ladies if, for once in their lives, they could hear the kind of conversation which goes on between men in the effusive mood that follows a copious repast. It would show them exactly the delicacy of our manners, and the amount of confidence they are calculated to inspire. I am not in the least prudish, but in my opinion this conversation outran the limits of the freest jesting; it touched on everything, gaily outraged everything, took on a gratuitous tone of universal profanation. My education is, perhaps, incomplete, for it has left me with a certain reserve of reverence, that I think should be maintained even in the wildest extravagances of high spirits. But we have in the France of to-day our young America, which is not happy unless it can blaspheme a little after drinking; we have the future hopes of the nation, those amiable little ruffians, without father or mother, without God or country, who seem to be the raw products of some heartless and soulless machine, which has accidentally deposited them on this planet not at all to its beautification. In short, M. de Bévallan, who had appointed himself professor of cynicism to these beardless _roués_, did not please me, nor do I think that I pleased him. I retired very early on the ground of fatigue. At my request old Alain procured a lantern and guided me across the park to my future quarters. After a few minutes’ walk, we crossed a wooden bridge over a stream and found ourselves in front of a massive arched doorway, flanked by two small towers. It was the entrance to the ancient château. A ring of aged oak and pine shut in this feudal fragment, and gave it an air of profound seclusion. It is in this ruin that I am to live. My apartments run above the door from one of the towers to the other, and consist of three rooms very neatly hung with chintz. I am not displeased with this gloomy abode; it suits my fortunes. As soon as I had got rid of Alain I began to write the account of this eventful day, breaking off occasionally to listen to the gentle murmur of the stream under my window, and to the call of the legendary owl celebrating his doleful loves in the neighbouring woods. _July 1st_. I must now try to pick up the thread of my personal and private life, which for the past two months has been somewhat lost among the daily duties of my post.