Yesterday, my dear Viscount, my life was in manifest danger. I will give you a recital of this little adventure, as I am sure it will please you, since the conclusion afforded me the highest satisfaction. The river Aude, you know, forms a canal in front of my house. I have had a large tent pitched on the bank, and we frequently go and bathe. My son learns to swim; he comes on surprisingly, and it is one of his greatest pleasures.

Yesterday, the heat being excessive, my son, Dainville, and I, repaired to the river, followed by my water-dog, that faithful Mouche, that you well know. I swam as usual; and after some time told Dainville and Theodore to return to the tent, and dress themselves, and that I would follow them presently. After they left me, I delivered myself with my dog; when all on a sudden the blood flew violently into my head, and I felt myself fainting. I strove to regain the tent, but my strength intirely failed; and I had only time to cry ‘Here, Mouche,’ before I lost my senses. On my recovery, I found myself on shore, and in my son's arms. He was half drest, dripping wet, his countenance changed, pale, and disfigured. The instant I opened my eyes, he seized both my hands, with a transport, beyond description, and pressed them to his breast, cried, sobbed embraced, and asked me a thousand questions in a breath. He was so distressed and trembling, that my dread of the baneful effects of so violent an emotion made me feel, at first, but imperfectly the joy that his sensibility caused me. When we were dreft, and returning in the carriage, I desired to be informed of particulars. – 'Scarce had you (said Dainville) uttered that dreadful cry, Here, Mouche, when Theodore, who was dressing, burst from the hands of Brunel, plunged into the river, exclaiming ‘Alas! why did he not say, Here, my son?’