I could show you something more modern in the way of historical association.  For example, from the road at the south side of my hill I can show you the Chateau de la Haute Maison, with its mansard and Louis XVI pavilions, where Bismarck and Favre had their first unsuccessful meeting, when this hill was occupied by the Germans in 1870 during the siege of Paris.  And fifteen minutes’ walk from here is the pretty Chateau de Conde, which was then the home of Casimir-Perier, and if you do not remember him as the President of the Republic who resigned rather than face the Dreyfus case, you may remember him as the father-in-law of Madame Simone, who unsuccessfully stormed the American theater, two years ago.

You ask me how isolated I am.  Well, I am, and I am not.  My house stands in the middle of my garden.  That is a certain sort of isolation.  There is a house on the opposite side of the road, much nearer than I wish it were.  Luckily it is rarely occupied.  Still, when it is, it is over-occupied.  At the foot of the hill—­perhaps five hundred yards away—­are the tiny hamlet of Joncheroy and the little village of Voisins.  Just above me is the hamlet of Huiry—­half a dozen houses.  You see that is not sad.  So cheer up.  So far as I know the commune has no criminal record, and I am not on the route of tramps.  Remember, please, that, in those last winters in Paris, I did not prove immune to contagions.  There is nothing for me to catch up here—­unless it be the gayety with which the air is saturated.

You ask me also how it happens that I am living again “near by Quincy?” As true as you live, I never thought of the coincidence.  If you please, we pronounce it “Kansee.”  When I read your question I laughed.  I remembered that Abelard, when he was first condemned, retired to the Hermitage of Quincy, but when I took down Larousse to look it up, what do you think I found?  Simply this and nothing more:  “Quincy:  Ville des Etats-Unis (Massachusetts), 28,000 habitants.”

Isn’t that droll?  However, I know that there was a Sire de Quincy centuries ago, so I will look him up and let you know what I find.

The morning paper—­always late here—­brings the startling news of the assassination of the Crown Prince of Austria.  What an unlucky family that has been!  Franz Josef must be a tough old gentleman to have stood up against so many shocks.  I used to feel so sorry for him when Fate dealt him another blow that would have been a “knock-out” for most people.  But he has stood so many, and outlived happier people, that I begin to believe that if the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, the hides, or the hearts, of some people are toughened to stand the gales of Fate.

Well, I imagine that Austria will not grieve much—­though she may be mad—­over the loss of a none too popular crown prince, whose morganatic wife could never be crowned, whose children cannot inherit, and who could only have kept the throne warm for a while for the man who now steps into line a little sooner than he would have had this not happened.  If a man will be a crown prince in these times he must take the consequences.  We do get hard-hearted, and no mistake, when it is not in our family that the lightning strikes.  The “Paths of Glory lead but to the grave,” so what matters it, really, out by what door one goes?