CXLV. TO GEORGE SAND
Wednesday afternoon.
Dear master,
Your commission was done yesterday at one o'clock. The princess in
my presence took some notes on what you wanted, in order to look
after it at once. She seemed to me very glad to do you a service.
People talk of nothing but the death of Noir! The general sentiment
is fear, nothing else!
Into what miserable ways we are plunged! There is so much imbecility
in the air that one gets ferocious. I am less indignant than
disgusted! What do you think of these gentlemen who come to confer
armed with pistols and sword canes! And of this person, of this
prince, who lives in the midst of an arsenal and makes use of it?
Pretty! Pretty!
What a sweet letter you wrote me day before yesterday! But your
friendship blinds you, dear good master. I do not belong to the
tribe you mention. I am acquainted with myself, I know what I lack!
And I am enormously lacking.
In losing my poor Bouilhet, I lost my midwife, it was he who saw
into my thought more clearly than I did myself. His death has left a
void that I notice more each day. What is the use of making
concessions? Why force oneself? I am quite resolved, on the
contrary, to write in future for my personal satisfaction, and
without any constraint. Come what may!
CXLVI. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 15 January, 1870
L'Affranchi is for Tuesday. I am working hurriedly to finish my
corrections and I leave Tuesday morning. Come to dine with me at
Magny's at six o'clock. Can you? If not, am I to keep a seat for you
in my box? A word during the day of Tuesday, to my lodgings. You
won't be forced to swallow down the entire performance if it bores
you.
I love you and I embrace you for myself and for my brood. Thank you
for Edme.