PARIS, _June 16, 1868_.
... I suppose you are having about the same weather that we are
enjoying--that is to say, perfectly lovely, and that you are no longer
suffering from excessive dampness, which is the unfortunate feature of
P. Here, the early summer is ravishing. I went, day before yesterday, to
the Bois de Boulogne, where I saw the most stunning costumes. I met one
very beautiful woman, dressed in an extraordinary fashion, and whose
hair was a lovely gold-colour. I could have sworn that she was a young
woman from the rue de Breda, but I came to recognise her as the wife of
a general. Her hair formerly was a dark chestnut. Customs are making
singular progress.
A well-known society man was living in marital relations with the wife
of another man. Returning to his apartment one day, he found her there
with a third man. Upon this, he went to the husband, and said to him: “I
know that you wish to have proofs of criminal intercourse, in order that
you may obtain a divorce from your wife. I bring you these proofs.” He
left with him a package of letters, and they separated, with expressions
of mutual esteem. It does not appear that he has been expelled from his
club, or excluded from any salon to which he has had access.
M. Tourguenieff has just sent me a very short, but very pretty novel,
entitled _The Brigadier_. It is now being translated, and if the proofs
are sent to me, I will share them with you. English novels are getting
to be so horribly dull that I can not take to them. Here, it seems that
there is no one but M. Penson de Terrail, but his stories are too short.
I expect to go to London by the end of the month. I hope to see you in
Hastings and in Paris, towards the end of July. Good-bye, dear friend.