I took the train the next day (that was yesterday) for Richeport, where M. de Meilhan had invited me to meet him.  You know M. de Meilhan without ever having seen him.  You are familiar with his verses and you like them.  I profess to love the man as much as his talents.  Our friendship is of long standing; I assisted at the first lispings of his muse; I saw his young glory grow and expand; I predicted from the first the place that he now holds in the poetic pleiad, the honor of a great nation.  To hear him you would say that he was a pitiless scoffer; to study him you would soon find, under this surface of rancorless irony, more candor and simplicity than he is himself aware of, and which few people possess who boast of their faith and belief.  He has the mind of a sceptic and the believing soul of a neophyte.

In less than three hours I reached Pont de l’Arche.  Railroads have been much abused; it is charitable to presume that those honest people who do so have no relatives, friends nor sweethearts away from them.  M. de Meilhan and his mother were waiting for me at the depot; the first delights of meeting over—­for you must remember that I have not seen my poet for three years—­I leave you to imagine the peals of laughter that greeted the mention of Lady Penock’s formidable name.  Edgar, who knew of my adventure and was excited by the joy of seeing me again, amused himself by startling the echoes with loud and repeated “Shockings!” We drove along in an open carriage, laughing, talking, pressing each other’s hands, asking question upon question, while Madame de Meilhan, after having shared our gayety, seemed to watch with interest the exhibition of our mutual delight.  This scene had the most beautiful surroundings in the world; an exquisite country, which in order to be fully appreciated, visited, described, sung of in prose and verse, should be fifteen hundred miles from France.

My mind is naturally gay, my heart sad.  When I laugh, something within me suffers and repines; it is by no means rare for me to pass suddenly and without transition from the wildest gayety to the profoundest sadness and melancholy.  On our arrival at Richeport we found several visitors at the chateaux, among the number a general, solemnly resigned to the pleasures of a day in the country.  To escape this illustrious warrior, who was engaged upon the battle of Friedland, Edgar made off between two cavalry charges and carried me into the park, where we were soon joined by Madame de Meilhan and her guest, the terrible general at the head.

Interrupted for a moment by the skilful retreat of the young poet, the battle of Friedland began again with redoubled fury.  The paths of the park are narrow; the warrior marched in front with Edgar, who wiped the drops from his brow and exhausted himself in vain efforts to release his arm from an iron grasp; Madame de Meilhan and those who accompanied her represented the corps d’armee; I formed the rear guard; balls