PARIS, _July 9, 1848_.
You are like Antæus, who regained strength as soon as he touched the
earth. No sooner do you reach your native land than you fall again into
your old faults. You reply very prettily to my letter. I begged you to
tell me how much longer you intended to stay away eating _amiles_; a
date was not much trouble to write, yet you preferred three pages of
circumlocutions, of which I can understand nothing, except that you
would have come if you had not remained. I see, also, that you are
spending your time most agreeably. I had no idea that Madame ----’s
scarf was bought to use as a memento. You might have told me, at least,
on whom you had thought proper to bestow it. In short, I am not at all
pleased with your letter.
The days here are very long and tolerably warm, but as peaceful as could
be wished, or rather hoped, under the Republic. All indications point
to a long truce. The disarmament is carried on vigorously, and is
producing good results. One curious symptom is observed. In the
insurgent neighbourhoods are numerous informants willing to point out
the hiding-places and even the leaders of the barricades. It is an
encouraging sign, you know, when wolves begin to fight among themselves.
I went yesterday to Saint-Germain to order the dinner for the
Bibliophilist Society, and came across a cook who was not only very
capable, but, moreover, eloquent. He told me he considered it a pity
that so many people object to artichokes served _à la barigoule_, and he
understood instantly the most fantastic dishes that I proposed. This
great man resides in the wing of the _Château Neuf_ where Henry IV was
born. From this spot one enjoys the most entrancing view imaginable.
Two steps away you find yourself in a forest of magnificent trees and of
beautiful undergrowth, and not a living soul to enjoy it all! ‘Tis true,
it takes fifty-five minutes to reach this charming place, but would it
be impossible to go there some day for dinner or luncheon with
Madame ----? Good-bye. Write to me soon.