PARIS, _August 24, 1861_.
DEAR FRIEND: I have arrived at last, in not too good a state of
preservation. I do not know whether it is from eating too heartily of
turtle-soup, or from running about too much in the sun, but I have had a
return of those pains in the stomach, which for some time had left me in
peace. I am taken in the morning about five o’clock, and they continue
an hour and a half. I suppose one suffers in somewhat the same way when
one is hanged. This does not inspire in me any desire to be suspended!
I found awaiting my return more work than I like. Our imperial
commission for the Universal Exposition is in travail; we are
exhausting all our eloquence in persuading those who have pictures to
lend them to us to send to London. Besides the obvious indiscretion of
the proposition, it happens that most owners of private collections are
Carlists or Orleanists, who think they are doing a pious act in refusing
us. I fear we shall cut a poor figure in London next year, and all the
more since we shall exhibit only works done during the last ten years,
while the English will exhibit the products of their school since 1762.
How did you find the heat of the tropics? It is a consolation to read,
in the papers which I receive, that in Madrid it was forty-four degrees,
which is the temperature of the hot season in Senegal. There is no one
in Paris, which suits me perfectly. I spent six weeks dining out, and it
is a relief now not to be obliged to put on a white cravat for dinner. I
visited the duke of Suffolk for a week, however, in a charming castle in
almost absolute solitude. The country is level, but is covered with
immense trees; and there is an abundance of water, so that the sailing
is excellent. The place is quite near some fens, and is the region from
which Cromwell sprang. There is an enormous quantity of game, and one
can not take a step without running the risk of treading on pheasants or
partridges.
I have no plans for the autumn, except that, if Madame de Montijo should
go to Biarritz, I shall visit her there and spend a few days. She is
still in sorrow, and I find her more desolate than she was last year at
the time of her daughter’s death.
It seems to me you have acquired a great fondness for that host of
children. I can not understand this. I suppose you allow yourself to
assume all the care of them, according to your habit of submitting to
oppression, so long as it does not come from me. Good-bye, dear
friend....