PARIS, _July 18, 1870_.
DEAR FRIEND: I have been, and am still, very ill. For six weeks I have
been unable to leave my room, and almost my bed. This is the third or
fourth attack of bronchitis I have had since the beginning of the year.
This promises nothing good for the approaching winter. When the heat of
summer offers me no protection against colds, how will it be when winter
comes?
I think that one must needs be admirably well, and have nerves of
singular vigour, not to be too deeply affected by the events of to-day.
I need not tell you how I feel. I am among those who believe that the
thing could not be avoided.[48] The explosion might have been retarded,
perhaps, but it was impossible to avert it altogether. Here, war is more
popular than it has ever been, even among the bourgeois. There is a
great deal of mouthing, which is assuredly unfortunate; but men are
volunteering, and money is being subscribed, which is the essential
point. Military men are full of confidence, but when one considers that
the whole future hangs on the chance of a bullet or a ball, it is
difficult to share that confidence.
Good-bye for the present, dear friend. I am already fatigued from
writing you these two little pages. I am ailing to the last degree;
still my physicians say that I am better, but I can not perceive it. I
have not sent the books to your house, fearing there might be no one
there to receive them.
Good-bye once more. I kiss you from my heart.