March 10th, 5 P.M.
I am back from saying good-by to dear Madame Lefaivre; she starts off to-night with swollen foot and leg, and I am very much fearing the long voyage for her. With her usual good nature she had had her paint-box unpacked and was sitting on a trunk, putting some restoring touches to a Madonna of most uncertain value, just discovered by the German consul-general. The Lefaivres have a pied-à-terre in Paris, with beautiful things inherited from Madame Lefaivre’s father. Lefaivre has decided to go, if the heavens fall, and, as we laughingly told him, if his wife falls, too, for that matter. I besought him to delay, for political reasons, but the long sojourn is on his nerves, and he has a bad throat. I am sorry to see them go, on my own account—such good friends. I am writing this, expecting Hohler and a woman special correspondent for tea. Burnside tells me she has been in many storm-centers and is bright and discreet.