Lausanne is, nevertheless, so full that we could scarcely find room; and
after Dumont and his servant had gone back and forward to Le Faucon, the
Lion d'or, Les Balances, etc. etc., all full to the garrets, we were
thankful at finding ourselves in the worst inn's worst room, where,
however, the beds were clean and good. We are not grumblers, so we drank
coffee and were all very happy; and while the rooms were preparing
Dumont read to us a pretty little French piece, _Le faux Savant!_


_Sept. 15_.

Our first object this morning was to see Madame de Montolieu, the author
of _Caroline de Lichfield_, to whom I had a letter of introduction. She
was not at Lausanne, we were told, but at her country house, Bussigny,
about a league and a half from the town. We had a delicious fine
morning, and through romantic lanes and up and down hills, till we found
ourselves in the middle of a ploughed field, when the coachman's pride
of ignorance had to give up, and he had to beg his way to Bussigny, a
village of scattered Swiss cottages high upon rocks, with far-spreading
prospects below. In the court of the house which we were told was Madame
de Montolieu's we saw a lady, of a tall, upright, active-looking figure,
with much the appearance of a gentlewoman; but we could not think that
this was Madame de Montolieu, because for the last half-hour Dumont,
impatient at our losing our way, had been saying she must be too old to
receive us. She was very old thirty years ago; she must be
_quatre-vingt_, at least: at last it came to _quatre-vingt-dix_. This
lady did not look above fifty. She came up to the carriage as it
stopped, and asked whom we wished to see. The moment I saw her eyes, I
knew it was Madame de Montolieu, and stooping down from the open
carriage I put into her hand the note of introduction and our card. She