I have stayed in Paris for two weeks already and don't know what to say about the city or about my life here. Recollecting how joyfully and pleasantly I spent my time here twenty years ago, I thought that I would divert and amuse myself in this capital of all possible amusements and entertainments. But—

Yet, I should say that the circumstances were not favorable to my expectations, either. When I arrived in Paris on the 29th of May, towards evening, I hurried to Madame Conrad's for my letters from Petersburg. When I found two letters awaiting me, I forgot about anything else in the world, and not even having apologized to the hostess, began to read them eagerly—I didn't notice at that time that she looked worried, would answer my questions abruptly, and didn't show much joy even when I gave her the letters and the parcel from her dear daughter, whom I saw before my departure from St. Petersburg. I asked her how her husband was doing. — “There are rumors,” she answered with trepidation, “that he is wounded.” — “Oh, my dear!” said one of the ladies visiting her at the time, “this is newspaper gossip, and you know how those rascal reporters lie.” The next day, I found out that her husband had been killed. — In the chancellery of our embassy, I met Peter Vasilievich Poggenpohl, who serves at the Madrid mission but lives in Paris while waiting for the end of the turmoil in Spain. I inquired if he had any news about his brother, Nikolai Vasilievich, who was very sick when I left him in Petersburg. — “Yes, I do,” answered he, “but his condition is poor. His sickness has taken a precarious turn. I am terribly worried.” — Some time later, I learned that Nikolai Vasilievich passed away. He was a noble, virtuous, educated, pleasant man, one of those people who bring joy by their mere existence. I have known him since his youth: he was one of my most exceptional students in the Petrovskaya school.