PERPIGNAN, _November 14_.
You have been such a long time writing to me that I began to be very
uneasy. Besides, I have been harassed by an absurd idea which I have not
dared to tell you before. I was visiting the amphitheatre at Nîmes with
an architect of the department, who was explaining to me at length the
repairs which he had made there, when I saw, ten feet away, a lovely
bird, a little larger than a tomtit, with a linen-gray body and wings
of red, black, and white. This bird was perched on a cornice, gazing at
me fixedly. I interrupted the architect, who is a great sportsman, to
ask him the name of the bird. He told me he had never seen one like it.
I approached, and, until I was close enough to touch it, the bird did
not take flight, perching a few steps beyond, and still watching me.
Wherever I went, the bird seemed to follow, for I saw it on every tier
of the amphitheatre. It had no companion, and its flight was noiseless,
like that of a bird of night.
The next day I returned to the amphitheatre, and there was my bird
again. I had brought some bread with me, which I threw to it. The bird
looked at the food, but would not touch it. I then tempted it with a big
grasshopper, thinking from the shape of the bill that it would eat
insects, but the bird paid no attention to the grasshopper. The most
learned ornithologist in the city told me that no birds of that species
lived in the country.
Finally, when I visited the amphitheatre for the last time, I found my
bird again, still pursuing my steps, following me even into a narrow,
dark corridor, where, bird of light that it was, it should not have
dared to venture.
I recalled then that the Duchess of Buckingham had seen her husband in
the form of a bird the day of his assassination, and the thought came to
me that you were dead, perhaps, and that you had assumed this form in
order to visit me. In spite of myself I could not shake off this foolish
idea, and I was delighted, I assure you, to see that your letter bore
the date of the day when I had first seen my inexplicable bird.
I arrived here during atrocious weather. A rain, the like of which is
never seen in the north, has deluged the entire country, cutting up the
roads and transforming the rivulets into great rivers. It is impossible
for me to leave the city to go to Serrabonne, where I have business. I
do not know how long this condition of things will continue.
There is a fair in progress at Perpignan. Besides, most of the Spaniards
fleeing from the epidemic come to this town, so that I have not been
able to find lodgings at any of the inns. Had I not succeeded in
exciting the sympathy of a hat manufacturer I should have been compelled
to sleep in the street. The little room in which I am writing is very
cold, and I am sitting before a smoky chimney-place, execrating the rain
which beats against my window-panes. The servant who attends me speaks
only Catalonian, and understands me only when I speak in Spanish. I have
no books, and do not know a soul in the place. Finally, and worse than
all, if a north wind does not rise I shall be obliged to stay here I
don’t know how long. I am unable even to return to Norbonne, for the
bridge which might assure my retreat is unsafe, and should the water
rise it will be carried away. An admirable situation this for reflection
and for writing one’s thoughts. But as for thoughts, I have none left. I
can only fume and fret, and have hardly sufficient energy even to write
to you. You do not mention having received a letter which I wrote you at
Arles. Perhaps it crossed with yours.
I went to the fountain of Vaucluse, where I was tempted to inscribe your
name; but there were so many wretched verses there, so many Sophies and
Carolines, etc., that I did not wish to desecrate your name by putting
it in such bad company. It is the wildest spot imaginable, with nothing
there but water and rocks. The only vegetation is a fig-tree which has
pushed its way, somehow or other, up through the rocks, and a few lovely
capillary plants, of which I enclose a specimen. When you have taken
capillary syrup for a cold, you have not known, perhaps, that this
plant had such a charming form.
I shall be in Paris about the 15th of next month. I do not know which
route I shall take. It is possible that I may return by way of Bordeaux,
but if the weather does not improve I shall go by way of Toulouse. In
that event I shall reach Paris a fortnight earlier. I shall hope to find
a letter from you at Toulouse. If it does not come I shall be mortally
offended with you.
Good-bye.