PARIS, _Thursday, April 4, 1867_.
DEAR FRIEND: Here I am, at last, in Paris, but more dead than alive. I
have not written, because I was too melancholy, and had only doleful
things to tell you of myself and of this sublunary world. You will find
me very miserable, but happy to see you again.
Friday morning, if the weather be fine, we might walk together to the
Museum of the Louvre. I dare hardly go out, I have such a dread of the
cold, but I am ordered to take exercise.
I send you the eighth volume of Guizot, which will entertain you. The
dull weather depresses me, and makes me _much_ worse. I hope you are
still in great prosperity.
My house is undergoing improvements, and I am reduced to living in my
salon, which is as gloomy as a prison. Come and cheer me up. You shall
carry away all the books you like, and I shall not require you to leave
me anything as security.
Good-bye, I shall see you soon, I hope.