PARIS, _April 9, 1866_.
DEAR FRIEND: Is it not a fatality that you should be leaving just as I
arrive! Fortunately, you will return soon. I have been here since
Saturday night, painfully ill. When I left I could scarcely breathe, and
the journey made me still more wheezy. We had a terrible storm last
night, which I hope will do me a little good. I shiver at your
description of that damp town of ----, and at the thought of those chilly
corridors of which you give such a dismal picture. Try to wrap yourself
in all your furs, and to leave the chimney-corner as seldom as possible,
and then only on sunny days. I have become so sensitive to the cold, or,
rather, the cold does me so much harm, that I can fancy hell in no other
aspect than as the compartment of the Bolge in Dante.
Happily, I am told crinoline is no longer fashionable, which allows your
legs and the rest of your body to have a little protection. I went out
yesterday for an hour, and saw a woman without any crinoline, but with
such extraordinary skirts that I was horrified. It seemed to me that she
wore a flounced pasteboard skirt under a gown which she held up. It
made a great deal of noise on the asphalt.
It is consistent with your habits to act the reverse of common mortals,
and as the country will soon be charming, I presume you will return to
Paris. Be kind enough, therefore, to advise me of your movements.
I am pondering and asking myself if I shall go to the Academy Thursday
to be an aid or a hindrance, after the fashion of an Immortal. Between
M. Henri Martin, M. Cuvillier-Fleury, and M. de Champagny, one does not
know exactly what to do. The latter, however, is a little too clerical
for me, and I bear him a grudge, moreover, for having written on Roman
history in journalistic style. M. Guizot, apparently, is the reigning
star. He wishes to make us swallow the entire _Journal des Savants_: M.
Paradol, then M. de Sacy and M. Saint-Marc. At any rate, they have
humour, and a great deal of intelligence. Have you read anything of
Cuvillier-Fleury? If so, tell me your opinion of him. If you will give
me a genuine reward besides, I will vote for whomsoever you may
designate.
English novels, meaning modern ones, are beginning to bore me to death.
They were our great resource at Cannes, where M. Murray, the well-known
bookseller, sends boxes of books twice a week. Do you know of anything
which will while away the time for a poor devil who dares not show his
face out of doors after sunset?
Good-bye, dear friend. Think of me sometimes, and send me some news of
yourself.