PARIS, _November 8, 1865_.
DEAR FRIEND: I have delayed writing to you, because I have been like a
bird upon a bough, yet attached by the claw. After bidding adieu to my
hostess at Biarritz, I had intended going to my usual wintering-place,
and thus to avoid the first effects of the cold; but I was urged to
remain for the opening of the season at Compiègne, and the request was
asked so graciously, that I could not very well decline. Then followed
the questions relating to cholera: to go or not to go to Compiègne.
Yesterday only the matter was decided. I am to go, and shall leave here
the 14th, to return the 20th. Tell me now if between the 14th and after
the 20th, there will be any chance of seeing you.
I returned from Biarritz in an excellent state of preservation, but
after three days I experienced all the rigours incident to a change of
climate. The fact is, I have been almost constantly desperately ill, not
from cholera, but from my usual trouble, inability to breathe, from
which may God preserve you! For several days, I have been better. I
think that Compiègne will make me much worse, but I shall hasten to take
my flight to the South and count on the sunshine to live through the
winter, which the successors of M. Mathieu (_de la Drôme_) predict will
be a severe one. You, I suppose, expect to be in a mild climate on the
borders of the Loire. I hope, at any rate, that you have neither cold
nor rheumatism. Would that I were able to say as much!
You can not imagine the scandalous gossip concerning the princess Anna’s
marriage, nor the ridiculous anger and rage of the faubourg Saint
Germain. There is not a family with a daughter who did not count on the
duc de Mouchy. The burning question at present is, “If they make calls,
shall we leave cards for them?”
On the other hand, there is in the marriage market at this moment a
young girl with several millions in her pocket, and about fifty others
to come to her. She is a pretty girl, somewhat mysterious, the daughter
of M. Heine, who died this year; an adopted daughter, of course, whose
origin no one knows. But in consideration of the millions, the greatest
names of France, Italy, and Germany are ready to overlook all the
dulness and stupidity. Adopted children of this sort are very pleasing
to the goddess Fortune. The Greeks of to-day call them children of the
soul; is it not a pretty name?
Have you read the _Chansons des Rues et des Bois_, of Victor Hugo? They
will read them, I fancy, at ----. Will you tell me if you find a marked
difference between his former poetry and that of to-day? Has he become
suddenly mad, or has he always been so? For my part, I incline to the
latter.
There is living at present only one man of genius: that is M. Ponson du
Terrail. Have you read any of his _feuilletons_? No one equals him in
dealing with crime and assassination. I revel in it.
If you were here, I should endeavour to shake your orthodoxy by making
you read a curious book on Moses, David, and Saint Paul. It is not an
idyl such as Renan writes, but a dissertation, a little too larded with
Greek, and even Hebrew. Still, the book is worth the trouble of reading;
and, turning to the text, the story of that Yankee who, wishing to write
a novel, has written a religious book, and a successful one, is but a
rehash. Nothing is more common than to catch a carp when one thinks he
is fishing for gudgeon. But you do not enjoy conversation like this, and
you are right; there are other things to talk of.
Good-bye, dear friend. I am anxious to see you once more in the flesh.