[Sidenote:  The Invaluable Hippolyte]

It is a steam yacht with a wee cabin, and a deck above that, with seats looking out each side, like old omnibuses, and in the stern (if that means the back part) are the sailors and the engines, and the oddest arrangement of cooking apparatus.  You should just taste the exquisite breakfasts that Hippolyte (the Baronne de Larnac’s maitre d’hotel) cooked for us this morning after we started.  He is the queerest creature, with a face like a baboon, and side whiskers, and the rest a deep blue from shaving.  The Baronne says she could not live without him; he is a splendid cook, and a perfect femme de chambre, and ready for anything.  He is much more familiar than we should ever let a servant be in England.  It was rough all the morning, quite waves.  The Seine is only half a mile from the Chateau de Croixmare, and runs past the Tournelles’ garden, so they have a private landing stage, and we all embarked from there.  Jean and the Comte are dressed in beautiful English blue serges, and look neat enough to be under a glass case.  The old Baron does not care what he wears, and this morning while he was working with the sailors had on a black Sunday coat!

The Baronne kept screaming when the boat rocked a little.  “Nous ferons naufrage!  Mon Dieu!  Mon Dieu!” and the Vicomte tried to comfort her, but she did not stop till Hippolyte popped his head out of the cabin and said, “Pas de danger! et il ne faut pas que Mme. la Baronne fasse la Bebete!”

At dejeuner we had only one plate each, and one knife and fork.  It was so windy we could not have it under the awning in the bows, and the cabin is so narrow that the seats are against the wall, and the table in the middle.  No one can pass to wait, so between the courses we washed our plates in the Seine, out of the window.  It was gay!  They are all so witty, but it is not considered correct to talk just to one’s neighbour, a conversation a deux.  Everything must be general, so it is a continual sharpening of wits, and one has to shout a good deal, as otherwise, with every one talking at once, one would not be heard.  I know French pretty well as you know, but they say a lot of strange things I can’t understand, and whenever I answer or ask why, they go into fits of laughter and say, “Est elle gentille l’enfant! hein!”

We are going to stop at the next small village to post the letters, so good-bye, dear Mamma.—­Your affectionate daughter, Elizabeth.

P.S.—­I hope you won’t get muddled, Mamma, with all their names, it takes so long writing the whole thing, so please remember Mme. de Larnac is the “Baronne,” Monsieur de Fremond is the “Baron,” Monsieur de Tournelle is the “Comte,” Mme. de Tournelle is the “Comtesse,” Mme. de Vermondoise is the “Marquise,” Monsieur de la Tremors is the “Vicomte,” and “Antoine” is the other officer.  So if I haven’t always time to put their names you will know now which they are.