in a pink-and-yellow sunset, and a dear little dove flew up to Noah's hand
and delivered the olive branch to him. The dove was better trained than
the animals, and had learned his role very well.

On coming out of the theater, we found, instead of the fine weather we had
left outside, a pouring rain which was a very good imitation of the deluge
inside. And none of us had an umbrella!

You see what the Duke de Morny writes: "I am making a collection of
photographs of the young and elegant ladies of Paris. I think that you
ought to figure among them, and though it is not an equal exchange, I am
going to ask you to accept mine and give me yours." And he brought it to
me last night.

An invitation for the ball at St. Cloud for the King of Spain, who is now
in Paris to inaugurate the new rail road to Madrid, and another ball at
the Tuileries will keep us busy this week.


PETIT VAL, _June 17th._ We have been here a week, rejoicing in the
lilacs and roses and all the spring delights. The nightingales are more
delightful than ever. There is one charmer in particular, who warbles most
enchantingly in the cedar-tree in front of my window. He has a lady-love
somewhere, and he must be desperately in love, for he sings his little
heart out on his skylarking tours to attract her attention. I try hard
(naive that I am) to imitate his song, especially the trill and the long,
sad note. I wonder if either of them is deceived: whether she thinks that
she has two lovers (one worse than the other), or, if _he_ thinks he has a
poor rival who can't hold a candle to him.