STRASBURG, _April 30, 1844_.
I am still here, thanks to the procrastination of the Municipal Council.
I was obliged to spend one day making use of all my most stately
eloquence to persuade them to restore an old church. They reply that
they need tobacco more than monuments, and that they intend to make a
shop of my church. I shall leave to-morrow for Colmar, and hope the next
day, that is, Thursday, to be in Besançon. I shall remain there only
long enough to lay a few flowers on Nodier’s tomb, and then I shall try
to return quickly to our woods. The season here seems more advanced than
in Paris. The country is exquisite, of a green that no painter could
reproduce.
I am glad to find you so merry; I can not say as much for myself. I
believe I have fever every night, and I am in a horrible mood. The
cathedral, which I used to admire so extravagantly, now appears ugly,
and even the wise and foolish Sabine virgins of Steinbach have barely
found favour in my eyes.
You are right to love Paris. It is, after all, the only city in which
one really lives. Where else should we find such promenades, such
museums, where we have quarrelled so many times, and said so many tender
words also? I should like to believe your promise, that we shall
continue our interrupted conversation as if we had never parted. I am
sure of what awaits me. A thick crust of ice will envelop you, and you
will not even recognise me. Yet, even though there be another scene,
that is better than not to see you at all.
Good-bye.