P.S.--I shall set off to-morrow. Yesterday I visited an old pagoda; there is another, but to which I shall not be able to go, as it would cost me 9 ticals, and take several days, and I shall be obliged to be excessively economical. Yesterday I had a visit from a mandarin, the viceroy of the province. He was very amiable, and promised me a letter, but the people are so kind that I have really no need of it, and even the disagreeable ones I manage to gain over. Adieu, my love. Do not forget me, but do not be uneasy. May God grant to you the same tranquillity and confidence that I feel and make you as happy as I am. Do not complain of the shortness of this letter; you cannot imagine how I am pestered by gazers and idlers. Embrace your dear mamma for me, to whom I wish good health; say everything kind to Kate, &c. Once more, adieu, and au revoir! Your devoted HENRI. I shall write whenever I find an opportunity. TO MADAME CHARLES MOUHOT. Louang Prabang (Laos), 23rd July, 1861. Now, my dear Jenny, let us converse together. Do you know of what I often think when every one around me is asleep, and I, lying wrapped in my mosquito-curtains, let my thoughts wander back to all the members of my family? Then I seem to hear again the charming voice of my little Jenny, and to be listening once more to ‘La Traviata,’ ‘The Death of Nelson,’ or some other of the airs that I loved so much to hear you sing. I then feel regret, mingled with joy, at the souvenirs of the happy--oh, how happy!--past. Then I open the gauze curtains, light my pipe, and gaze out upon the stars, humming softly the ‘Pâtre’ of Béranger, or the ‘Old Sergeant,’ and thinking that one day I may return Corporal or Sergeant of the battalion of Naturalists. Perhaps all this does not interest you, but you may feel sure that I do not forget you nor your children; so let me, my dear child, talk to you as we used to talk in the old times as we sat by the fire. When shall we do so again? In another year, or perhaps two, dear Jenny, I shall think of returning to you all for some time. Shall you be very angry, my dear little sister, when I say that it will be with regret?--for I should wish to visit the whole of the mountains that I can see from my window. I say “window,” but here such a luxury is unknown: I live in a shed without either doors or windows--a room open to every wind. I would wish, I repeat, to cross the whole network of mountains which extend northward, see what lies beyond them, visit China or Thibet, and see the Calmucks or the Irkoutsk. But, alas! I cannot trust my dear insects. I say “my dear insects” as you would say “my dear children” to the king of Louang Prabang.