PARIS, _September 20, 1859_.
There is certainly an evil genius who interferes in our affairs. I fear
that I shall have to go without seeing you. I had planned to leave Paris
the 30th, in order to be in Bayonne the 1st. It turns out that in the
Madrid diligences and mail-coaches, every place is engaged until
October 16th. There is nothing to do, therefore, but to go by sea--that
is, to go by steam-boat from Marseilles to Alicante. If some new
difficulty does not arise, I shall reach Marseilles the evening of the
28th (my birthday, parenthetically), and the 29th I shall be on the way.
Although you have kept me in a shocking rage this summer with your _ifs_
and your _noes_, it makes me very miserable, I assure you, to go without
bidding you good-bye. After living such an age without seeing you, to
enter again on another term of absence almost as long! Who knows if you
will be in Paris when I return? I am starting with all sorts of dismal
thoughts; I hope yours are more rose-coloured.
My little visit to Tarbes did me good, and I imagine the air of the
suburbs of Madrid will complete my cure. As always happens when I am
about to go on a journey, I have an inclination for work, which I should
never feel, doubtless, if I had remained at home. I am taking paper with
me in order to write in Madrid. Think of me the 29th of this month. I
shall in all probability be ill, while you will be in consultation with
your dressmaker on the subject of your fall gowns. The Gulf of Lyons is
always abominable, and it will probably be worse than ever at this
equinoctial season, which was created for my express annoyance.
To turn to the bright side of the prospect, I shall find, on my arrival
in Alicante, a railroad which will take me to Madrid in one day, instead
of being obliged to spend three days being jolted in the worst of
coaches, over the roughest ruts that one can imagine. During my absence
I shall probably have some commissions to give you. However, we have
plenty of time to speak of them, for I do not like to form plans long in
advance, especially with you, who, as you know, sometimes forget them.
You will find Paris entirely empty. I know of a good many persons who
are leaving, but, except yourself, I know of none who are returning. The
trees are parched, the peaches are all gone, and the grapes are good for
nothing. If you have been eating ortolans in Dauphiny, you will not
think much of the game which you will find in Paris. I am not guilty of
the sin of gluttony and am never hungry any more, and pay no attention
to what I have to eat.
I regret Paris; I should have seen you there. That is its only
attraction for me. Good-bye. You might write me once more here, until
the 27th. I fancy--think of the absurdity of it!--that you may surprise
me by arriving the 26th.