_Written in Louisiana this 22d of August, 1795, for my dear friends
Suzanne and Françoise Bossier_.

I have promised you the story of my life, my very dear and good friends
with whom I have had so much pleasure on board the flatboat which has
brought us all to Attakapas. I now make good my promise.

And first I must speak of the place where I was born, of the beautiful
Château de Morainville, built above the little village named Morainville
in honor of its lords. This village, situated in Normandy on the margin of
the sea, was peopled only and entirely by fishermen, who gained a
livelihood openly by sardine-fishing, and secretly, it was said, by
smuggling. The château was built on a cliff, which it completely occupied.
This cliff was formed of several terraces that rose in a stair one above
another. On the topmost one sat the château, like an eagle in its nest. It
had four dentilated turrets, with great casements and immense galleries,
that gave it the grandest possible aspect. On the second terrace you found
yourself in the midst of delightful gardens adorned with statues and
fountains after the fashion of the times. Then came the avenue, entirely
overshaded with trees as old as Noah, and everywhere on the hill, forming
the background of the picture, an immense park. How my Suzanne would have
loved to hunt in that beautiful park full of deer, hare, and all sorts of
feathered game!

And yet no one inhabited that beautiful domain. Its lord and mistress, the
Count Gaston and Countess Aurélie, my father and mother, resided in Paris,
and came to their château only during the hunting season, their sojourn
never exceeding six weeks.

Already they had been five years married. The countess, a lady of honor to