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[Page 50]
I cannot say I care for this life in Billets. Personally I have a very nice little room to myself with a table and bed and sheets – the last I fancy for some time to come. It is fairly clean, which is the main thing. But there is a good deal of clatter and racket, which is very trying to one of my nervous disposition All the French women seem to have such high pitched, penetrating voices – and they talk at a fearful rate, volubly and excitedly – altogether too great a strain for my humble French. I have given up trying, and leave that to my batman. Then the noise of their wooden sabots on the brick floors is more than irritating. In this particular billet is a youth – [indecipherable] 4 – who rejoices in the name of Lucien. I do not know what it means, but if anything to do with Lucifer, he has shewn no signs yet of living up to his name – rather the reverse. He is an [infernal?] Satanic little imp, and yells all day. One thing he has rather a cheery smile – but he only smiles about once a day, and I am generally out for that.