PARIS, _Saturday, August 5, 1848_.
There is renewed talk of fighting, but I pay no attention to it. This
evening, however, my friend, M. Mignet, was strolling with Mademoiselle
Dosne in the little garden which is in front of the home of M. Thiers. A
shot, fired silently from some point above them, struck the house close
by Madame Thiers’ window; and as every shot carries its message, this
had one for a corpulent person who was sitting just outside the garden
railing, holding on her lap a little twelve-year-old girl. The shot was
extracted skilfully, and, except a slight scar, she will suffer no ill
effects from the wound. But for whom was it designed? For Mignet? That
seems impossible. For Mademoiselle Dosne? Even more so. Madame Thiers
was not at home, nor M. Thiers either. The report was heard by no one;
at the same time, the shot was of the sort used in war, and air-guns are
of much weaker calibre. For my own part, I believe it was a Republican
attempt at intimidation, about as imbecile as everything else done
nowadays. To my mind, these are the only shot to fear.
General Cavaignac said: “They will kill me, and Lamoricière will succeed
me, then will follow the duc d’Isly, who will sweep away all before
him.” Do you not find in these words something prophetic? Very little
confidence is expressed in Italian interference. The Republic will prove
to be even more craven than the Monarchy. It may be, however, that some
pretence will be made of an attempt at intervention, in the hope of
obtaining thereby delays, a conference, treaties. A friend of mine who
has just come from Italy was seized by Roman Volunteers, who find
travellers of better fighting quality than Croatians. He insists that it
is impossible to induce the Italians to fight, with the exception of the
Piedmontese, who can not be everywhere at once.
I am telling you all this political news in the hope that it will cause
no change in your plans. The Navy Bureau is making great preparations
for the transportation of six hundred of the gentlemen taken prisoners
in June; this will be the first convoy. I should not be unwilling to
believe that on the day when the transport sails several thousand
tearful widows will be on hand at the door of the Assembly; but of
brand-new insurgents, do not believe it.
Have done with Romaic, in admiring which you are making a great
mistake, for it will play you the same trick it did me. I found it
impossible to learn, and now I have also forgotten classical Greek. I
am astonished that you can understand anything at all of the jargon.
Besides, it will fall into disuse before long. Already Greek is spoken
in Athens, and if this custom continues, Romaic will soon be spoken
only by the rabble. Since 1841 not a single Turkish word, heard so
frequently in the τραγἡδιον of M. Fauriel, has been pronounced by the
aristocracy of Greece.
Have I ever translated for you a very pretty ballad of a Greek who
returns to his home after a long absence, and is not recognised by his
wife? Like Penelope, she questions him for information about his family;
he answers correctly, but she is not convinced. She examines him for
other proofs, is convinced, and then recognises him. I leave all this
for your divination.
Good-bye. I am waiting to hear from you.