“The Cypresses have their caprices”
“To Madame Louise Jedrzeïewicz.
“Paris, _Monday, June 25, 1849._
“My dearly beloveds,
“If you can, come. I am ill, and no doctor can help me as you can. If
you need money, borrow it; when I am better I can easily make it and
return it to whoever lends it to you, but just now I am too broke to
be able to send you anything. My Chaillot apartment is big enough to
receive you, even with the two children. Little Louise will benefit in
every way. Papa Calasante[1] shall run about all day long; we have the
Agricultural Products Exhibition close to us here; in a word, he will
have much more time for himself than he did the other time, because I
am weaker, and shall stay more in the house with Louise. My friends and
all my well-wishers are convinced that the best remedy for me would be
the arrival of Louise, as she will certainly learn from Mme. Obreskow’s
letter. So get your passport. People whom Louise does not know, one
from the North, and one from the South, told me to-day that it would
benefit, not only my health, but also my sister’s.
[Footnote 1: His brother-in-law.]
“So, mother Louise and daughter Louise, bring your thimbles and your
needles. I’ll give you handkerchiefs to mark, socks to knit, and you
shall spend your time for a few months in the fresh air with your old
brother and uncle. The journey is easier now; also you don’t need much
luggage. We’ll try to be happy here on very little. You shall find
food and shelter. And even if sometimes Calasante finds that it is far
from the Champs Elysées to town, he can stay in my apartment in the
Square d’Orléans. The omnibus goes right from the Square to my door
here. I don’t know myself why I want so much to have Louise, it’s like
the longing of a pregnant woman. I swear to you that it will be good
for her, too. I hope that the family council will send her to me: who
knows whether I shan’t take her back when I am well! Then we could
all rejoice and embrace each other, as I have already written, but
without wigs and with our own teeth. The wife always owes obedience
to her husband; so it’s the husband whom I beg to bring his wife; I
beg it with my whole heart, and if he weighs it well he will see that
he cannot give a greater pleasure either to her, or to me, or do a
greater service even to the children, if he should bring one of them.
(As to the little girl I do not doubt it.) It will cost money, it is
true, but it cannot be better spent nor could you travel more cheaply.
Once here, your quarters will be provided. Write me a little word.
Mme. Obreskow, who had the kindness to want to write (I have given her
Louise’s address), will perhaps be more persuasive. Mlle. de Rozières
will also add a word, and Cochet, if he were here, would speak for
me, because there is no doubt that he would find me no better. His
Æsculapius has not shown himself for ten days because he has at last
perceived that there is something in my sickness that passes his
science. In spite of that, you must praise him to your tenant, and to
all who know him, and say that he has done me a great deal of good;
but my head is made that way: when I am a little bit better, that’s
enough for me. Say also that everyone is convinced that he has cured a
quantity of people of cholera. The cholera is diminishing a great deal;
it has almost disappeared. The weather is superb; I am sitting in the
salon from where I can admire the whole panorama of Paris: the towers,
the Tuileries, the Chambres, St.-Germain l’Auxerrois, St. Etienne du
Mont, Notre-Dame, the Panthéon, St. Sulpice, Val de Grâce, the five
windows of the Invalides, and between these buildings and me nothing
but gardens. You will see it all when you come. Now get busy on the
passport and the money, but do it quickly. Write me a word at once. You
know that the cypresses have their caprices: my caprice to-day is to
see you in my house. Maybe God will permit everything to go well: but
if God does not wish it, act at least as though He did. I have great
hope, because I never ask for very much, and I should have refrained
from this also if I had not been urged on by all who wish me well.
Bestir yourself, Monsieur Calasante. In return, I shall give you _huge_
and excellent cigars; I know someone who smokes marvellous ones—in
the garden, mind you! I hope the letter I wrote for Mamma’s birthday
arrived, and that I did not miss the date too far. I don’t want to
think of all that because it makes me feverish, and, thank God, I have
no fever, which disconcerts and vexes all the ordinary doctors.
“Your affectionate but very feeble brother,
“Ch.”