My coachman, who was one of the "anciens zouaves"--so renowned for their
bravery--generally has cramps when he is told that I am going to drive
myself to Paris. And when I drive those twelve miles I do it in double-
quick time with Medje and Hilda, my two "limousin" horses. No wonder Louis
offers up a prayer to the saints before starting, and sits, holding with
both hands on to his little seat back of me, with an expression on his
face of "O Lord, what is going to happen?"


PARIS, _January, 1863._

DEAREST MAMA,--I have been expecting letters from you and home for a long
time, but nothing has come yet.

The coldest day that Paris has ever known, since goodness knows when, has
suddenly burst upon us, and skating is just dawning on the Parisians.

The ice on the little lake of Suresnes has frozen _d'emblee_, and I
was crazy to go there and skate. We had stayed late in the country, having
spent Christmas _en famille_, and only returned to Paris a few days
ago. I had just received the skates you sent me for my Christmas present,
and I was wild to try them. What beauties they are! My old ones, with
their screws and their innumerable straps, seem horribly complicated and
clumsy. As you advised, I had very tight-fitting boots with low heels made
for them. I drove out to the Bois with baby and his _nounou_, and to
gain time put on my skates in the carriage, and when I arrived, I walked
down to the lake. I never saw such splendid ice (and I have seen many
ices). No tardy layers, no treacherous holes, just one even mirror of
marble. Imagine my surprise at not seeing a person on the ice; but there
were masses of spectators gathered on the edge of the lake looking at it.