Paris struck me quite as a new place.  Madame d’Urfe was dead, my friends had changed their houses and their fortunes; the poor had become rich and the rich poor, new streets and buildings were rising on all sides; I hardly knew my way about the town.  Everything was dearer; poverty was rampant, and luxury at it highest pitch.  Perhaps Paris is the only city where so great a change could take place in the course of five or six years.

The first call I made was on Madame du Rumain, who was delighted to see me.  I repaid her the money she had so kindly lent me in the time of my distress.  She was well in health, but harassed by so many anxieties and private troubles that she said Providence must have sent me to her to relieve her of all her griefs by my cabala.  I told her that I would wait on her at any hour or hours; and this, indeed, was the least I could do for the woman who had been so kind to me.

My brother had gone to live in the Faubourg St. Antoine.  Both he and his wife (who remained constant to him, despite his physical disability) were overjoyed to see me, and entreated me to come and stop with them.  I told them I should be glad to do so, as soon as the lady who had travelled with me had got over her confinement.  I did not think proper to tell them her story, and they had the delicacy to refrain from questioning me on the subject.  The same day I called on Princess Lubomirska and Tomatis, begging them not to take it amiss if my visits were few and far between, as the lady they had seen at Spa was approaching her confinement, and demanded all my care.

After the discharge of these duties I remained constantly by Charlotte’s side.  On October 8th I thought it would be well to take her to Madame Lamarre, a midwife, who lived in the Faubourg St. Denis, and Charlotte was of the same opinion.  We went together, she saw the room, the bed, and heard how she would be tended and looked after, for all of which I would pay.  At nightfall we drove to the place, with a trunk containing all her effects.

As we were leaving the Rue Montmorenci our carriage was obliged to stop to allow the funeral of some rich man to go by.  Charlotte covered her face with her handkerchief, and whispered in my ear, “Dearest, I know it is a foolish superstition, but to a woman in my condition such a meeting is of evil omen.”

“What, Charlotte!  I thought you were too wise to have such silly fears.  A woman in child-bed is not a sick woman, and no woman ever died of giving birth to a child except some other disease intervened.”

“Yes, my dear philosopher, it is like a duel; there are two men in perfect health, when all of a sudden there comes a sword-thrust, and one of them is dead.”

“That’s a witty idea.  But bid all gloomy thoughts go by, and after your child is born, and we have placed it in good hands, you shall come with me to Madrid, and there I hope to see you happy and contented.”