[Footnote 1: To Madame Hanska, Naples. Balzac had joined her at Chalon
and accompanied her, with her daughter and Count Mniszech (whom Anna
was now engaged to marry), to Naples. This letter was written on his
way back to Paris.--TR.]
I have this instant arrived, without my luggage or my passport; I have
not breakfasted; but while they are laying the table, I sit down to
write to you, dear countess, as usual; for it is, on arriving, my first
and greatest need.
It has _blown_ ever since I left Naples, "blown a gale" as they said
on the boat, with "a heavy sea." Those, as you know, are the innocent
words with which sailors disguise the most frightful weather. Ours
was so bad that we were obliged to put into Toulon yesterday, but
_La Santé_ [health officers] would not allow the purser of the ship,
or your humble diplomatic servant to land with the most important
despatches the East ever forwarded. It was seven o'clock; the sun
was down; _La Santé_ vacated its office. We told _La Santé_ that it
took upon its own head the greatest responsibility and was terribly
high-handed. _La Santé_ laughed in our faces, and we were forced to
spend the night on board and come on to Marseille. I was not sea-sick,
but everybody else, sailors excepted, was badly so. That was not all;
it rained in torrents the whole way. The yellow waters of the Tiber and
the Arno could be seen in the sea to a great distance; the littoral was
flooded. To all my griefs no aggravation was lacking. But I had one
diversion. I went to Pisa, and in spite of the beating rain I saw all;
except your admirer, M. C. The cathedral and the baptistery enchanted
me; but that enchantment was mingled with the thought that during this
year I had admired nothing without you until now; and I looked at those
noble things with deep melancholy.
At Civita Vecchia I landed, in memory of you, and went to see that
antiquity-shop, where you sat down. I there learned that Madame Bocarmé
had been telling tales about my journey; of no importance, however,
for who cares about the gossip of that intriguing old lady! You were
very right; I repent having written your name for Anna, as I always
repent when I have had the misfortune not to obey you in matters you
have thoroughly divined. Such is the exact tale of my journey. As for
sentiments, I shall have to invent new words, so weary must you be with
my elegies. I looked at the Hôtel des Victoires as long as I could.
Not a woman appeared on deck; they were only manifested by dreadful
vomitings, which rattled the panels of the ship as much as the fury of
the seas.
Here comes my breakfast to interrupt me.
Midnight.
Méry has just left me. I offered him tea and whist at ten sous a
fish; not ruinous, as you see. Here is the history of my day. After
breakfast I went to bed, for I was tired. Méry, to whom I had written
a line, came while I was asleep, and found me in such a magnificent
attitude of repose that he respected it. But he returned while I was
dressing, and we went to the shop of a dealer in antiquities, where I
found some very beautiful things. I chose a few trifles which seemed
to me true bargains to snatch; you know I never buy in any other way.
After leaving these shops we went to dinner,[1] and then returned here
for tea. I have lost five francs and won the collaboration of Méry
for several plays that I have in view. He is going to have the affair
of the two _savants_ copied, and we will have it printed for you. A
curious autograph of Méry's and some verses he has charged me to send
you are herewith inclosed. That will give you pleasure, will it not?
I leave to-morrow at eleven o'clock; so that I shall have stayed
only-forty-eight hours at Marseille, where I have been much occupied by
bric-à-brac, and somewhat by Méry. I must close this letter and send
it, for the mail goes to-morrow to Italy.
[Footnote 1: See Memoir, p. 272--TR.]
November 13, nine in the morning.
Adieu again, dear countess; I shall not write you more until I reach
Passy. You know well what is in my heart and soul and memory for you
and your two children--for Georges is like a first-born to you. I am
still stupid from the sea-voyage, even in writing to you; the roll of
the vessel is in my head; you will excuse me, will you not? I wrote you
with my feet still wet with sea-water. To-morrow I take the mail-cart
for Paris. I have spent a great deal, apart from my purchases. In the
first place, on the ship the water was not drinkable; I had to have
champagne, and I could not drink it alone beside the captain and the
purser, who had been admirably attentive to me. All that was much
extra. Then I had to ask some gentlemen to breakfast this morning at
the Hôtel de l'Orient; politeness required it; besides, that is part
of my make-up as author of LA COMÉDIE HUMAINE. Don't cry out at the
extravagance; and say nothing about it to Georges, who would take me
for a Lucullus and laugh at me.
Affectionate homage, and all tenderness of heart to your adorable
child, and to the excellent Georges. I am going to work to rejoin
you. Perhaps you will see Méry in Florence; he has arranged to make
the journey with me. Take good care of yourself, and tell yourself
sometimes that there is a poor being at Passy very far from his sun.
I am like Méry,--very chilly when in Paris. You are my Provence. Méry
talked much of you to me; you are very sympathetic to him. He took
full notice of your Olympian brow, which has something of a Pagan
god and the Christian angel and a little of the demon (I mean the
demon of knowledge). Those who know you as I do can aspire to but one
thing beside you; and that is to comprehend, enjoy, and love your soul
more and more, if only to become better by intercourse with you and
your etherealized spirit. That is my prayer, the desire of my human
religion, and my last yearning thought towards you.
PARIS, November 18, 1845.
Dear countess, I arrived here so fatigued that I was forced to go to
bed, and have only just risen for dinner, and shall return to bed
directly after it. I have a severe lumbago and fever; I feel all
kneaded and broken. I went beyond my strength. At Marseille I was
perpetually in company, and that added greatly to the effects of the
voyage. You saw the life I led in Naples,--always going, rushing,
looking, examining, observing, and talking! So that these last three
nights in the mail-cart, without sleep, added to twelve days on
shipboard and rushing about Naples, have vanquished my health, vigorous
as it is. I went out this morning to the custom-house and to see Émile
de Girardin, and this evening to see M. F... I am not yet recovered; I
still have lumbago and fever, but a good night's sleep will cure me.
November 19.
Georges' commissions will be handed to him about December 15 by the
captain of the "Tancrède." His cane is ordered and will soon be
finished. My affairs are doing well; but I shall not finish everything
by the end of the year; and as long as I have a single creditor, it
would be imprudent to raise the mask by becoming a property-owner.
Chlendowski gives me the greatest uneasiness. He threatens to go into
bankruptcy if he is not aided. I never knew a man lie like him. What
you did for love of France with Laurent-Jan, I have done for Poland
with Chlendowski. Fate tells us, dear countess, to take care of none
but ourselves. Honest folk, believe me, have enough to do in that way
without undertaking the care of others. If Chlendowski fails, I shall
lose ten thousand francs; the thought makes me shudder.
I have given orders to search Paris for a house all built and ready;
for it is impossible, in view of the scarcity of money, that a fine
house could not be had for a hundred and fifty thousand francs.
November 21.
I rose at nine o'clock, a lump of lead! I am making up my arrears of
sleep. Alas! my good genius will hear with pain that I am forced to
set myself an Herculean task. I must put my papers in order, and it is
now ten years since I have touched them. What labour! I have to make a
bundle for each creditor, with bill and receipt in perfect order, under
pain of paying twice for what was never due. It will give me a fever
till it is all done. But I am in such haste to return to Italy and
to my dear troupe, never to leave them again, that I find courage to
drive all my affairs abreast,--manuscripts, completions of everything,
publishers, debts, even the purchase of a property worthy of the author
of LA G-R-R-R-ANDE COMÉDIE HUMAINE.
I must bid you abruptly adieu, and hurry out on business, so as to
be able to-morrow to return to regular hours of rising and working.
I intend to rise at four every day. Adieu, then, dear, distant star,
which scintillates forever, ceaselessly, as memory and as consolation.
November 25.
Yesterday I rushed the whole day; twenty-five francs carriage hire!
I went to see my sister; then to Girardin at the "Presse," where my
account is settled. Girardin takes "Les Petites Misères," and I must
now finish them. Then I went to Plon's printing-office. I saw A. de
B... about the renewal of Chlendowski's notes; and I am now expecting
the said Chlendowski to explain his position to me. After which, I must
go out again and see M. Gavault to regulate his account, and know what
he has paid. All that is not proof of activity; it is simply becoming
the wheel of a machine.
Chlendowski came. I spoke to him sternly and with dignity. I told
him that in order to help a man who had summoned me, I must have
guarantees; I must have a deed legally drawn, and a deposit of the
wood-cuts which are to illustrate "Les Petites Misères;" and on that
condition I was willing to renew his notes for three thousand eight
hundred francs. The man took my arm, in the Polish fashion, and kissed
it humbly. In this way I shall be secured if he fails, and A. de B...
consents to keep the wood-cuts. See what difficulties and worries! We
have an appointment for to-morrow, and I must now go to M. Gavault and
consult on this deed of guaranty. I dine with Émile de Girardin, who
wants to know if "Les Petites Misères" is _publishable_.
November 27.
I have no news of my purchases at Amsterdam. But, on the other hand,
I found on my return a letter from a ship-owner in Havre, asking for
an interview. I wrote to M. Periollas, asking him to inquire about my
cases, and also about the ship-owner. I have just received his answer;
he says he knows nothing about the cases, but that the ship-owner is
building a ship which he wants to call "Le Balzac;" and Periollas asks
me to write a pretty letter to the ship-owner because he adores me. So,
dear countess, your servitor will be carved on the prow of a vessel and
show his fat face to all the nations; what do you say to that?
I have just heard strange, sad news,--Harel is mad, and Karr also. I
prefer not to believe it.
November 28.
I have received a letter from Lirette inviting me to the ceremony of
her taking the vows and veil. This letter has prevented me from sending
my packet to you by the boat of December 1, for I want you to know of
this at once; but it really hurts me to think what anxiety the delay
may cause you.
I assure you that my life here is no longer endurable. I live in
a whirlwind of errands, business, consultations, legal notices,
corrections, which deprive me of all reflection, pressed as I am on all
sides, with not a soul to help me, doing all myself. Yesterday I worked
seven hours on "Les Petites Misères" ... Is it written above that,
until the end, I shall be harried and driven like a college drudge?
PASSY, December 3, 1845.
I could not write to you yesterday; I had very pressing proofs for the
"Presse" (which wants the whole of "Les Petites Misères" at once), and
also for LA COMÉDIE HUMAINE. So that having risen at half-past two in
the morning, I worked till midday. I had scarcely time to breakfast and
reach the convent at one o'clock.
These good sisters really think that the world turns for them alone.
I asked the portress how long the ceremony would last; she replied,
"An hour." So I thought to myself: I can see Lirette after it and get
back in time for my business at the printing-office. Well, it lasted
till four o'clock! Then I had, in decency, to see the poor girl; and
I did not get away till half-past five. But I don't blame Lirette; it
was right that her dear countess and her Anna should be represented
at the burial of their friend; so I went through it bravely. I had a
fine place beside the officiating priest. The sermon lasted nearly
an hour; it was well-written and well-delivered; not strong, but full
of faith. The officiating priest went to sleep (he was an old man).
Lirette never stirred. She was on her knees between two postulants.
The little girls were ranged on one side of the choir, the Chapter
on the other, behind the grating, which was made transparent for the
occasion. Lirette, together with the postulants, listened to the
exhortation-sermon on her knees and did not raise her eyes. Her face
was white, pure, and stamped with the enthusiasm of a saint. As I had
never seen the ceremony of taking the veil, I watched, observed, and
studied everything with a deep attention which made them take me, I
have no doubt, for a very pious man. On arriving, I prayed for you and
for your children fervently; for each time that I see an altar I take
my flight to God and humbly and ardently dare to ask his goodness for
me and mine--who are you and yours. The chapel, with its white and gold
altar, was a very pretty one; it belongs to the Order of the Visitation
of Gresset. The ceremony was imposing and very dramatic. I felt deeply
moved when the three new sisters threw themselves on the ground, and
were buried beneath a mortuary pall while prayers for the dead were
recited over those living creatures, and when, after that, we saw them
rise and appear as brides, crowned with white roses, to make their vows
of espousal to Jesus Christ.
An incident occurred. The youngest of the sisters, pretty as a dream
of love, was so agitated that when it came to pronouncing the vows
she was forced to stop short, precisely at the vow of chastity. It
lasted thirty seconds at most; but it was awful; there seemed to be
uncertainty. For my part, I admit that I was shaken to the depths of my
soul; the emotion I felt was too great for an unknown cause. The poor
little thing soon came to herself, and the ceremony went on without
further hindrance.
When one has seen the taking of the veil in France, one feels a pity
for writers who talk of forced vows. Nothing can be more free. If a
young girl were constrained what prevents her from stopping everything?
The world is there as spectator, and the officiating priest asks
twice if she has fully reflected on the vows she desires to take. I
saw Lirette after the ceremony; she was gay as a lark. "You are now
Madame," I said, laughing. She replied she was so happy she asked
God continually to make us all priests and nuns! We ended by talking
seriously of you and your dear child.
Dear countess, I hope you will find here a proof of my affection, for
I was overwhelmed with work and business. But Lirette had written,
"I am sure that nothing will prevent you from being present." I knew
too well the meaning she attached to that not to determine it should
be fulfilled. I was happy there, for I thought exclusively of you,
after I had made my prayers. To think of you who are my religion and
my life, is to think of God. I feel but too well that if your glorious
friendship failed me I should lose consciousness of myself, I should
become insane, or die.
December 4, 1845.
To-morrow I am going to see, in the rue des Petits-Hôtels, Place
Lafayette (you know), a little house that is there for sale. It is
close beside that church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, the Byzantine church
we went to see, and where a funeral was going on. You said, looking
at the vacant ground near the church which I pointed out to you: "I
should not be unwilling to live here; we should be near God, and far
from the world." From what I am told I think I could buy the house and
might even do so without consulting you; it would be firing on the fly
at a pheasant. My next letter will tell you if it is done. The rue
des Petits-Hôtels joins the rue d'Hauteville (which goes down to the
boulevard near the Gymnase), and, by the rue Montholon, it intersects
the rue Saint-Lazare and the rue de la Pépinière. It is in the centre
of that part of Paris which is called the right bank, and will always
be the region of the boulevards and theatres. It is also the upper
banking quarter.
My letter must go to-morrow if I want the "Tancrède" to take it. "Les
Petites Misères de la Vie conjugale" is finished. To-morrow I begin the
last folio (sixteen pages) that remains to do on LA COMÉDIE HUMAINE;
then all will have been delivered to Chlendowski. I expect to finish
the novel for Souverain by the 20th or 25th of December. Then I need
three months for the seven volumes of "Les Paysans;" that will bring
me to March 15. My mother's affairs will take some time, as well as
the clearing up of my liquidation accounts. I do wish, you see, not to
leave any business behind me in quitting Paris for perhaps eighteen
months; and when I return it must be to my own home. I have promised
you that, and I will no longer deceive myself by thinking that I can do
the impossible.
T see with grief that I shall, apparently, have to sacrifice Florence
and Rome to the work and the business that will secure, as you say, the
repose and safely of my future. To spend immense sums in going to see
you for only eight days, and returning to find suits and worries of
all kinds is senseless! I must have, as you say, the courage to spare
myself these mistaken calculations and these bootless sorrows. I shall
try to go to Rome for Holy Week, for I shall then be so weary I shall
need some distraction; but if by sacrificing that happiness I should
obtain your _satisfecit_ and what you call a "position worthy of me,"
I should not hesitate. Will you, at last, approve of me a little? Tell
me so, then, for I have great need of being sustained by you in my
hard and cruel resolutions. Don't you see, nothing is ever done in the
time I assign for things. If LA COMÉDIE HUMAINE is not finished by
December 25, I cannot have the money for it before January 15, 1846,
and if I do not get it till then, my payments are delayed that time.
So with "Les Paysans;" I shall not be paid till March. Money rules me
absolutely when it is a question of paying creditors. Well, between now
and a month hence all will be done. But if you only knew the steps,
the tramps! Creditors for three hundred francs cost as much search and
verification as those for thirty thousand--it is a labyrinth, a hydra!
Adieu, dear distant star, yet always present; soft and celestial light,
without which all would be darkness within me and without me. Oh! I
entreat you, take care of yourself. I am not too anxious about your
little illness; it is only an effect of the climate; they told me that
on the ship, and strong constitutions are often the most tried. But I
tell you and I repeat it to you: take care of yourself. Remember that
you are the glory and honour and sole treasure of a poor being who
loves you exclusively, who thinks of you only, whose acts, as well
as his thoughts and dreams, are emanations from that moral sun of
affection which is his whole soul in its relation to you. Bless you a
thousand times for your punctuality in writing! Tell me everything;
all that happens to you, with every possible detail; nothing is
insignificant to me if it concerns you. Do as I do. Among all the great
worries of my life, as troubled as yours is calm and serene, I do not a
pass a day without writing you a line, as a merchant makes up his day
book. Well, a few more efforts, and a little patience, and I hope to
have conquered the right to never leave you again.
PASSY, December 13, 1845.
Dear countess; I am overcome by the same nostalgia which I felt before
I went to Chalon. It is excessively difficult for me to write; my
thought is not free; it no longer belongs to me. I believe that I
cannot recover my faculties under eighteen months, perhaps. You must
resign yourself to endure me beside you. Since Dresden I have done no
great thing. The beginning of "Les Paysans" and the end of "Béatrix"
were my last efforts; since then, nothing has been possible to me.
Yesterday, during the whole day, I felt a sombre and dreadful gloom
within me.
Yet I must finish the six folios of LA COMÉDIE HUMAINE. Furne has
come. He has excellent intentions. On my side, I _must_ complete this
undertaking, which is all my future. But the heart is as absolute as
the brain, it is indifferent to whatever is not itself; millions to
win, a fortune of fame and self-love satisfied is nothing to the heart.
Your letter describes to me a similar state with much truth and
eloquence. That letter, in which pain is more contagious than the
plague, and over which I wept your tears, shuddering to find there what
I felt myself, that letter has filled the measure of my inward and
hidden malady. Nothing but my interests can drag me out of the deep
despondency that has now laid hold upon me. Paris is a dreadful desert;
nothing gives me pleasure, nothing contents me; I am under the empire
of some passionate invading force without analogy in my life. I compare
the twenty-four towns we saw together with one another; I try to recall
your observations, your ideas, your advice; motion fatigues me, rest
depresses me. I get up, I walk, but my body is absent, I see it, I feel
it; at times, as I tell you, this is madness. It is very probable that
if my six folios of LA COMÉDIE HUMAINE were finished I could go to
Naples; and that thought is the only means of making me do them. What
could I not obtain from myself under the hope of that immense joy, were
it only for one week? I tell myself there are a thousand reasons why I
ought to see you, consult you; that I can do nothing without you. In
short my mind is the accomplice of my heart and will.
Meantime, awaiting the result, I make no complaint, I am dull and
gloomy; I am like a Breton conscript, regretting his dear scones and
his Bretagne. All that is not you was once without interest to me, now
it is odious.
December 14.
Yesterday, dear countess, I went to see, in detail, the Conciergerie,
and I saw the queen's dungeon and that of Madame Elisabeth. It is all
dreadful. I saw everything thoroughly; it took the whole morning, and
I had no time to go to the rue Dauphine to do Georges' commissions.
When I went back towards the court of assizes I heard that the trial
then going on was that of Madame Colomès, niece of Maréchal Sebastiani,
a woman forty-five years of age whom I wished to see. And I found,
seated on the prisoner's bench of the court of assizes, the living
image of Madame de Berny! It was awful. She was madly in love with a
young man, and to give him money, which he spent on actresses of the
Porte-Saint-Martin, she forged indorsements in negotiating the notes
of imaginary persons. She took everything on herself (he has taken to
flight), and would not allow her lawyer to charge the blame to him.
I had never heard a case pleaded in court and I stayed to hear
Crémieux, who spoke well, _ma foi_! The unhappy creature, in order to
get money to give the young man, had abandoned herself to usurers, to
old men! Crémieux told me that she said to her lover: "I only ask you
to deceive me enough to let me fancy I am loved." She is the daughter
of a brother of the maréchal, and the wife of the engineer-in-chief
of Bridges and Highways, and a deputy. I was so deeply interested in
finding a novel seated on that bench, that I stayed till half-past four
o'clock beside the poor creature, who has been very handsome and who
wept like a Magdalen; every now and then I heard her sigh out, "Aie!
aie! aie!" in three heart-rending tones.
M. Lebel, governor of the Conciergerie, who has locked the door on
every sort of crime for the last fifteen years, is, they tell me,
the grandson of the Lebel who opened the doors of Louis XV. to the
beauties of the Parc-aux-cerfs. These vicissitudes, these striking
analogies, occur in obscure families as in the most august. The heir
of the original Lebel, the successor of him of royal pomps, had
nothing to leave on going to his death but a worn-out cravat and an
old prayer-book. When you come to Paris I must certainly show you the
Palais; it is curious and thrilling and completely unknown. Now I can
do my work ["La Dernière Incarnation de Vautrin"].
On my return home, I found I had missed Captier, Claret's friend. This
is a pity; I should have liked to talk with him about a purchase I
have in view. There is a chance of buying a bit of ground in the rue
Jean-Goujon in the best condition. It is only a stone's throw from the
Place de la Concorde.
Yesterday I found some distraction of my nostalgic misery in the
Conciergerie, and the court of assizes, and to-day I plunge into work
vehemently.
Ah! I must have my house between two gardens, without disagreeable
neighbourhood. And I will have a little greenhouse at the back of
it--But I must leave you, I must work. You do not know that I am
silently collecting very splendid art furniture by dint of researches
and tramps about Paris, economy, and privations. I don't wish to speak
to you of this; I shall not unmask my batteries until my dream takes,
more and more, the semblance of reality.
December 15.
I am now launched into work. This night I have done six pages of the
six folios I have to do; and I assure you--I, who know myself--that
that is a great deal. I shall try this week to finish LA COMÉDIE
HUMAINE.
Yesterday, after finishing my work, I went to see my sister, on a
letter she had written me saying that her eldest daughter was dying.
Sophie had really nothing more than a slight congestion of the head,
which cooling drinks relieved. I heard from Laure that a M. Bleuart
was on the point of ruin from having bought up the _quartier_ Beaujon,
and that several of the houses were for sale. I hurried there. There
are, indeed, houses and vacant ground; but of all those houses there is
but one that is anything like finished, and that one is immense; nine
windows on the front. I am going there on Wednesday with a friend of
Claret and a young man who is in the secret of M. Bleuart's affairs.
You see I bestir myself to find a really good thing, and repair in some
degree the disaster of Les Jardies; but the important thing of all is
to work. I met my old landlord of the rue des Batailles, and he told me
that ground in the rue Jean-Goujon was selling for nothing, and I ought
to make haste to buy at present prices.
On returning from Beaujon yesterday, I went to pay a visit of half an
hour to Madame de Girardin. Returning at six o'clock, I dined and was
asleep by seven. In examining my resources, I think I can do without
what you know of (the Dresden affair); it is, I have reflected,
so difficult to write, receive, and send papers of that kind that
I shall try to wait, and place the matter as a last result in its
time and place. I am so in the habit when I write to you of thinking
aloud, calculating, and recalculating, that you see and know all my
hesitations, my backings-down, my additions, etc. You are always and in
all things my sole thought; it is you, and you know it well, who are
the foundation of everything. If I had the strength this night to apply
myself to six folios it was because I want to go from Naples to Rome
with you, and for that I shall try to leave here January 11. I want to
install you in Rome, as I installed you in Naples. Madame de Girardin
calls me _il vetturino per amore_.
Adieu for to-day. How are you? Do you amuse yourself sometimes? Does
Georges take good care of both of you? If anything happens to you under
his auspices I will crush his box of insects on the boat. I bless you
every day of my life, and I thank God for your good affection. You
are my happiness, as you are my fame and my future. Do you sometimes
remember that morning at Valence on the bank of the Rhône, when our
gentle talk triumphed over your neuralgia as we walked for two hours
in the dawn, both ill, yet without perceiving the cold or our own
sufferings? Believe me, such memories, which are wholly of the soul,
are as powerful as the material recollections of others; for in you the
soul is more beautiful than the corporeal beauties for which the sons
of Adam destroy themselves.
Adieu till to-morrow, gentle and spiritual power, who hold subjected to
your laws your poor and fervent servitor.
December 16.
I received yesterday at four o'clock your number 4. I see that you
are still uneasy; but you have not thought of one thing, which is
that you began to write to me while I was travelling, and it requires
time to establish our regular correspondence. Thus to-day, December
16, I have received four letters from you; well, you, between now and
December 30, will have received four letters from me. What is the
difference?--fourteen days. But those fourteen days were five at sea,
three at Marseille, three in a mail-cart, and the first week in Paris,
during which I wrote to you from here. I calculate that you have to-day
received my packet by the "Tancrède." That was my number 2; on the
24th you will get my number 3, sent by Anselme de Rothschild; and this
will reach you on the 30th, because it will leave here on the 21st.
So, dear countess, in spite of the uneasiness which this early failure
of the superior force has caused you, you see I am not in fault; I have
written to you every day,--too much, in fact, for I have done nothing
but think of you, and I have written too little for _posterity_; and
not to write retards my liberation.
_Mon Dieu_, how your letters make me live! I have an idolatry for those
dear papers; I am like a child about them; your punctuality delights
me. Never think that I mistake the value of such goodness on your part.
I entreat you, take care of yourself; those pains in your stomach worry
me. Mine have disappeared, or at least I seldom suffer from them. What
is deplorable is that work fatigues me, the symptoms that happiness and
the journeys of this year drove away are returning. My eyes throb, the
temples also, and I feel weary. I have had to buy a candelabrum for
five candles; three were no longer enough, my eyes pained me. So that
ugly little candlestick of tarnished gilt, which you must have noticed
in my study, is now replaced by a ministerial candelabrum of unheard-of
magnificence in bronze, chased and gilt; but it burns one franc fifty
centimes' worth of wax-candles every night; do you hear that, madame?
Now, two francs for fire, and fifty centimes of coffee besides, make
four francs a night. The Arabian Nights cost dear.
Dear countess, I can give Lirette her capital without any difficulty.
Tell me how much you intend for her, and I will pay it to her at once.
I will go to the convent and settle it with her. I shall be quite
content to receive it back in May. Why give yourself the trouble of
sending money here. Let me be, for once at least, your business agent.
I have not yet obtained your fantastic set of jewels; but I shall have
them soon. Froment-Meurice desires to distinguish himself on Georges'
cane, and I don't know whether it will be done by New Year's day. He
is a great artist. I assure you it is quite alarming to see how much
talent and genius there are in Paris.
I am so cautious about all that concerns you that I shall not risk
sending this letter on the 17th; for the boat leaves on the 21st, and
at this season the mail-cart might be delayed; therefore I prefer to
put my letter in the post to-day, 16th. So I cannot tell you anything
about the Bleuart houses; but you shall know all by the letter leaving
January 1; you will know also whether I can take the steamboat that
starts on the 11th. Do not insist, I entreat you, on forbidding it.
In the first place I warn you that, not only you will not be listened
to, but I shall be very happy in disobeying you. That means nothing,
however, for the greatest happiness must always consist, for me, in the
most complete submission to your sovereign will, ever and everywhere.
But, I repeat, you alone will be responsible if you persist.
I still have no news of my purchases at Amsterdam; those are furniture
griefs. I have just heard of a great misfortune; the beautiful Madame
Delaroche, daughter of Horace Vernet, is dead.
Well, _à bientôt_. Consent with a good grace, because you will gain
nothing by refusing. Do you not think it may be the food at the Hotel
Vittoria which gives you those pains in your stomach?