PARIS, _May 19, 1852_.
Has this lovely weather nothing to say to you? It gives me new life,
seemingly. I waited for you almost all of yesterday. Why, I do not know;
but it seemed to me that you must have known that I was expecting you.
Come, then, as quickly as you can, for I have a great many things to say
to you. I do not know whether they wish to hang me or not. I am told
sometimes one thing, sometimes another. What makes me fidgety is the
thought of a public ceremony[13] in the presence of the flower of the
rabble, and three black-robed imbeciles, stiff as posts, and imagining
that they are somebody. The worst of it is that one does not dare to
express the utter contempt he feels for their robes, for themselves, and
for their intelligence.
Good-bye; write me a word.