I have had the measles at the S[oe]urs. And, of all my adventures, of which I have had many and queer, as will be (never) recorded in the Book of my Wanderings, the dirtiest and the queerest I have ever had has been a measles in the cell of a S[oe]ur de la Charité. They were very kind to me--and dear M. Mohl wrote to me almost every day, and sent me tea (which, however, they would not let me have), and he lastly, in his paternity, would have me back (where I came yesterday), and established me in the back drawing-room, to my infinite horror, and now I am getting better very fast, and mean to be out again in a day or two. I had got rid of the eruption and all that before I came. M. Mohl is _so_ kind and comes to see me and talk, which I suppose is very improper, but I can't help it, and he has been like a father to me and never was _such_ a father! I really am so ashamed of all his kindness, and the trouble I give them, that my brazen old face blushes crimson, and I assure you this paper ought to be red. Julie [the servant] is very kind to me. But I hope not to be long on their hands. As to my calamity itself, it is like the Mariage de Mademoiselle: who could have foreseen it? It really was not my fault. There was no measles at any of my posts, and I had had them not eighteen months ago, so that, erect in the consciousness of that dignity, I should not have kept out of their way, if I had seen them. The Dr. would not believe I could have had them before. Well, I'm so ashamed of myself that I shall lock myself up for the rest of my life, and never go nowhere no more. For you see, it's evident that Providence, who was always in my way, and who, as the Supérieure said, is _très admirable_ (meaning wonderful) in having done this, does not mean me to come to Paris nor to the S[oe]urs, having twice made me ill when I was doing so--and given you all this trouble. For me to come to Paris to have the measles a second time, is like going to the Grand Desert to die of getting one's feet wet, or anything most unexpected.... Please write to M. Mohl, and comfort him for his disaster. I am so repentant that I can say nothing--which, the Catholics tell me, is the "marque" of a true "humiliation." Thank you a thousand times for all your kindness. I come to England next week. F. N.