PARIS, _September 7, 1869_.
DEAR FRIEND: Do you expect to remain much longer at ----? Shall you not
return here soon? While I have not as yet felt any sign of the approach
of winter, I am beginning to look towards the South, for I have promised
myself not to allow myself to be surprised by the cold. For several days
I have been a little better, or, to speak more exactly, less ill. I
have taken compressed-air baths, which have done me a little good, and I
follow a new treatment which is tolerably successful. I am still
solitary. I never go out at night, and see almost no one. By the help of
all these precautions I am alive, or nearly so. Bülow succeeded in
enticing me off.
At Saint Cloud the empress had me read _The Bear_ (it is called _Lokis_
now, which is bear in _Jmoude_) before some young girls, who, as I think
I told you, understood nothing at all. This encourages me, and on the
15th of this month the thing will appear in the _Revue_. I have made
several changes besides the names, and I wished to make still others,
but my courage failed me. You will tell me what you think of it.
Yesterday we concluded our little matter.[44] I am uncertain as to the
result. The respectable public is so hopelessly stupid, that what it
formerly desired, now inspires it with fear. I have a suspicion that the
bourgeois, who voted for M. Ferry a few months ago, now think that
before some days in June, more or less remote, he will find himself
disarmed. His distinguishing characteristic is never to be satisfied,
with his own achievements especially.
The emperor’s illness is not serious, but it may be tedious, and there
may be a return of it. It is said, and I am inclined to believe it, that
the great journey to the Orient will be countermanded; possibly the
strained relations existing between the sultan and the viceroy are
considered of sufficient importance to wreck the plans for the proposed
excursion.
Have you read, in the _Journal des Savants_, the history of the princess
Tarakanof? This is not new, however, and I believe I have shown you the
proofs.
I have in mind to write, this winter, a _Life of Cervantes_, to serve as
a preface to a new edition of _Don Quixote_. Has it been a long time
since you have read _Don Quixote_? Does it still amuse you? Have you
ever tried to explain why? I find it amusing, and yet I can give no
valid reason; on the contrary, I can think of many things about the book
which should prove that it is worthless; nevertheless, it is excellent.
I should like to know your ideas on the subject. Do me the kindness to
read over several chapters, and ask yourself these questions. I depend
on you to do me this favour.
Good-bye. I hope the month will not pass without seeing you.