CXCIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 6 September, 1871
Where are you, my dear old troubadour?
I don't write to you, I am quite troubled in the depths of my soul.
But that will pass, I hope; but I am ill with the illness of my
nation and my race. I cannot isolate myself in my reason and in my
own IRREPROACHABILITY. I feel the great bonds loosened and, as it
were, broken. It seems to me that we are all going off, I don't know
where. Have you more courage than I have? Give me some of it?
I am sending you the pretty faces of our little girls. They remember
you, and tell me I must send you their pictures. Alas! they are
girls, we raise them with love like precious plants. What men will
they meet to protect them and continue our work? It seems to me that
in twenty years there will be only hypocrites and blackguards!
Give me news of yourself, tell me of your poor mother, your family,
of Croisset. Love us still, as we love you.