I told the little girl to run quickly and bring me a servant.  When the man came I handed him six louis to sharpen his wits, and then solemnly gave him my orders:  “When they ring for you in that saloon, do you tell that young Turk with a red vest on ... you will remember him?” “Yes, madame.”  “You will tell him that the countess his mother is waiting here for him, in room No. 7, at the end of the corridor.”  “Ah! the lady who was weeping so bitterly?” “The same one.”  “Madame may rely upon me.”

I then paid my bill, and, inquiring the quickest way of leaving Havre, I fled from the hotel.  Walking along Grande Rue de Paris, I saw with pleasure that the city was filled with strangers, who had come to take part in the festivities that were taking place at Havre, and that I could easily mingle in this great crowd and leave the town without being observed.  Uneasy and agitated, I hurried along, and just as I was passing the theatre I heard some one call me.  Imagine my alarm when I distinctly heard some one call:  “Mlle. Irene!  Mlle. Irene!” I was so frightened that I could scarcely move.  The call was repeated, and I saw my faithful Blanchard rushing towards me, breathless and then I recognised the supplicating voice ...  I turned around and weeping, she exclaimed:  “I know everything, Mlle., you are going to America!  Take me with you.  This is the first time I have ever been separated from you since your birth!” I had left the poor woman at Pont de l’Arche, and she, thinking I was going to America, had followed me.  “Be quiet and follow me,” said I, forgetting to tell her that I was not going to America.  I reached the wharf and jumped into a boat; the unhappy Blanchard, who is a hydrophobe, followed me.  “You are afraid?” said I.  “Oh, no, Mlle., I am afraid on the Seine, but at sea it is quite a different thing.”  The touching delicacy of this ingenious conceit moved me to tears.  Wishing to shorten the agony of this devoted friend, I told the oarsman to row us into the nearest port, instead of going further by water, as I had intended, in order to avoid the Rouen route and the Prince, the steamboat and M. de Meilhan.  As soon as we landed I sent my faithful companion to the nearest village to hire a carriage, “I must be in Paris, to-morrow,” said I.  “Then we are not going to America?” “No.”  “So much the better,” said she, as she trotted off in high glee to look for a carriage.  I remained alone, gazing at the ocean.  Oh! how I enjoyed the sight!  How I would love to live on this charming, terrible azure desert!  I was so absorbed in admiration that I soon forgot my worldly troubles and the rain tribulations of my obscure life.  I was intoxicated by its wild perfume, its free, invigorating air!  I breathed for the first time!  With what delight I let the sea-breeze blow my hair about my burning brow!  How I loved to gaze on its boundless horizon!  How much—­laugh at my vanity—­how much I felt at home in this immensity!  I am not one of those modest souls that are oppressed and humiliated by the grandeur of Nature; I only feel in harmony with the sublime, not through myself, but through the aspirations of my mind.  I never feel as if there was around me, above me, before me, too much air, too much height, too much space.  I like the boundless, luminous horizon to render solitude and liberty invisible to my eyes.