PARIS, _September 2, 1868_.
While I was at Fontainebleau a strange incident happened to me. I had
the idea of writing a novel for my hostess, whose hospitality I wished
to repay in blarney. I did not have time to finish it; but on my return
here I placed the word _End_ on it, and I fear it will be considered too
long deferred. The strange part of it, however, is, that no sooner had I
finished, than I began another novel. The recrudescence of this malady
of my youth alarms me, because it so resembles a second childhood.
Nothing of all this, be it understood, is for the public.
While I was in the château we read some marvellous modern novels, the
authors of which were utterly unknown to me. It is in imitation of these
gentlemen that this last novel is written. The scene occurs in
Lithuania, a country perfectly familiar to you. Pure Sanskrit is spoken
there. A great lady of the land, having gone to hunt, had the misfortune
to be captured and carried away by a bear destitute of feeling. She
became insane, but gave birth to a well-formed boy, who grows up and
becomes charming, only he is subject to gloomy moods and inexplicable
whimsicalities. He is married, and on his wedding-night eats his wife
alive. You, who know all the tricks, since I disclose them to you, will
guess immediately why. Yes, this gentleman is the illegitimate son of
that unlicked cub. _Che invenzione prelibata._[41] Please tell me, I
pray you, what you think of it.
I am not doing any too well, and am urged to renew the compressed-air
baths at Montpellier. If you do not return to Paris before the 1st of
October, you will probably not find me there. I will leave you the novel
_Smoke_, which I have had waiting for you for ages. I do not know what
has become of the author. He was in Moscow recently, with gout, and a
historical novel in the bargain.
I regret greatly not having visited the aquarium of which you tell me,
when I passed through Boulogne. Nothing diverts me more than fish and
sea flora.
I dined yesterday with Sainte-Beuve, who was very interesting. Although
a great sufferer, he has a charming wit, and is, without doubt, one of
the most agreeable conversationalists that I have ever heard. He is
deeply alarmed at the progress made by the clericals, and takes the
thing to heart. I think the danger does not come from that direction....
Good-bye, dear friend. Write to me, but do not write so loosely as to
put but three words on a line. Tell me candidly your opinion on my
invention of the bear.