CHÂTEAU DE COMPIÈGNE, _Sunday, November 21, 1858_.
Your letter drives me to despair....
We are to remain at Compiègne one day longer. Instead of Thursday, we
shall return Friday, on account of a comedy of Octave Feuillet, which is
to be played Thursday night. I hope this will be the last delay.
Besides, I am thoroughly ill. It is impossible to sleep in this place.
One is either freezing or roasting, and this has given me an irritation
of the chest, which is extremely painful. It is, however, impossible to
fancy a host more amiable and a hostess more gracious.
Most of the invited guests left yesterday, and the rest of us make a
select little party; that is to say, there are but thirty or forty to
sit at table. We took a long walk in the woods, which recalled our
rambles of former times. Were it not for the cold, the forest would be
as beautiful as in the beginning of the autumn. The leaves still hang on
the trees, but of the most lovely yellow and orange tints you can
imagine. Deer crossed our path at every step.
To-day a fresh cargo of illustrious guests is to arrive. All the
ministers, in the first place, then Russians and other foreigners. The
heat in the salons will be intensified, of course. Good-bye.
When I think that I might have seen you in Paris to-day! I am tempted to
run away and give them the slip....