PARIS, _November 8, 1867_.
DEAR FRIEND: I send you a word in haste, written in the midst of the
errand which I am compelled to do. I leave to-morrow for Cannes,
seriously ill; but there I hope to live in sunlight and warmth. Here we
have it cold and almost frosty. I no longer go out at night, and never
put my nose out of doors except when the temperature becomes a little
milder.
I do not know how long I shall be able to stay away; it depends somewhat
on the Pope, on Garibaldi, and on M. de Bismarck. Like every one else, I
am more or less in the hands of these gentlemen. I know nothing more
shameful than this affair of Garibaldi. If ever a man was under
obligation to commit suicide, it is he, assuredly. What is even more
lamentable is the fact that the Pope is quite convinced that he is
under no obligation to us, and that it was Heaven which managed
everything for his sake. Good-bye, dear friend....