PARIS, _Thursday, July 12, 1860_.
Fine weather has at last come to stay. From all indications, I shall
leave the beginning of next week. If you have any idea of visiting
Lady ---- at the sea-shore early in August, I hope that you will let me
know of it. Rural England must be very lovely, I fancy, just at this
time, and you would enjoy spending a few days with your friend, doing
nothing at all, watching the sea and drinking tea beside the open
windows. I am still feeling ill. Yesterday especially, I was very
uncomfortable. I have my new friend, however, to entertain me. It is an
owl I am raising, and which has taken a fancy to me. After dinner I open
his cage door and he flies about in my room. For want of small birds, he
has learned to catch flies very skilfully. His physiognomy is extremely
comical, and reminds me of self-important people, with his
ultra-serious manner and expression.
The funeral was a terrible ordeal. It took us an hour and three-quarters
to go from the Palais-Royal to the Invalides. Then there was mass,
followed by an oration by the Abbé Cœur, who lauded the principles of
‘89, saying at the same time that our soldiers were ready to sacrifice
their lives in the defence of the pope. He went so far as to say that
the first Napoleon did not love war, and was always forced into it for
self-defence. The most imposing part of the ceremony was a _De
Profundis_, sung in the vaults that you know, and which came to us
through a drapery of black crêpe separating us from the tomb. It seems
to me that if I were a musician I should profit by the admirable effect
produced on tone quality by the use of crêpe, for a grand spectacular
opera.
No one is left in Paris. We go at night to the Champs-Élysées to hear
Musard’s music, and to see the fine ladies and the lorettes, all there
together and difficult to distinguish. We go also to the circus to see
the trained dogs roll a ball on an inclined plane, jumping up after it.
This age is losing all sort of taste for intellectual amusements.
Have you read the book I lent you, and was it interesting? The _History
of Madame de la Guette_ pleased me more than _The Holland Jewess_, in
which there were things that would have shocked you.
I have been asked to suggest an English novel for a sick man who can
read nothing else. Perhaps you may be able to tell me of one. I have
just completed a lengthy report on the Library of Paris. It is this, I
imagine, that has made me so ill. I waste my time bothering with things
in which I am not interested, and business which belongs to others is
piled on my shoulders. I have at times wished to write a novel before my
death, but sometimes my courage fails me, and again, when I am in the
mood, some stupid administrative affairs are given me to attend to. I
shall write to you before leaving.... Good-bye....