In the summer of 1858 an expedition was made to France, in order to visit Mr. Browning’s father and sister; but no attempt was made to extend the journey into England.  In fact, the circle of their flights from Florence was becoming smaller; and as 1856 saw Mrs. Browning’s last visit to England, so 1858 saw her last visit to France, or, indeed, beyond the borders of Italy at all.  It was only a short visit, too,—­not longer than the usual expeditions into the mountains to escape the summer heat of Florence.  In the beginning of July they reached Paris, where they stayed at the Hotel Hyacinthe, rue St. Honore, for about a fortnight, before going on to Havre in company with old Mr. Browning and Miss Browning.  There they remained until September, when they returned to Paris for about a month, and thence, early in October, set out for Italy.

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To Miss E.F.  Haworth

Hotel Hyacinthe, St. Honore: 
Wednesday and Thursday, July 8, 1858 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,—­The scene changes.  No more cypresses, no more fireflies, no more dreaming repose on burning hot evenings.  Push out the churches, push in the boulevards.  Here I am, sitting alone at this moment, in an hotel near the Tuileries, where we have taken an apartment for a week, a pretty salon, with the complement of velvet sofas, and arm-chairs, and looking-glasses, and bedrooms to correspond, with clocks at distances of three yards, as if the time was in desperate danger of forgetting itself—­which it is, of course.  Paris looks more splendid than ever, and we were not too much out of breath with fatigue, on our arrival last night, to admit of various cries of admiration from all of us.  It is a wonderfully beautiful city; and wonderfully cold considering the climate we came from.  Think of our finding ourselves forced into winter suits, and looking wistfully at the grate.  I did so this morning.  But now there is sunshine.

We had a prosperous journey, except the sea voyage which prostrated all of us—­Annunziata, to ‘the lowest deep’ of misery.  At Marseilles we slept, and again at Lyons and Dijon, taking express trains the whole way, so that there was as little fatigue as possible; and what with the reviving change of air and these precautions, I felt less tired throughout the journey than I have sometimes felt at Florence after a long drive and much talking.  We had scarcely any companions in the carriages, and were able to stretch to the full longitude of us—­a comfort always; and I had ‘Madame Ancelot,’ and ‘Doit et Avoir,’ which dropped into my bag from Isa’s kind fingers on the last evening, and we gathered ‘Galignanis’ and ‘Illustrations’ day by day.  Travelling has really become a luxury.  I feel the repose of it chiefly.  Yes, no possibility of unpleasant visitors! no fear of horrible letters! quite lifted above the plane of bad news, or of the expectation of bad news, which is nearly the same thing.  There you are, shut in, in a carriage!  Quite out of reach of the telegraph even, which you mock at as you run alongside the wires.