We were housed only yesterday. I lose no time in despatching this
memorandum of our whereabouts, in order that you may not fail to write
me a line before you come to Paris on your way towards England, letting
me know on what day we are to expect you to dinner.
We arrived here quite happily and well. I don't mean here, but at the
Hotel Brighton, in Paris, on Friday evening, between six and seven
o'clock. The agonies of house-hunting were frightfully severe. It was
one paroxysm for four mortal days. I am proud to express my belief, that
we are lodged at last in the most preposterous house in the world. The
like of it cannot, and so far as my knowledge goes does not, exist in
any other part of the globe. The bedrooms are like opera-boxes. The
dining-rooms, staircases, and passages, quite inexplicable. The
dining-room is a sort of cavern, painted (ceiling and all) to represent
a grove, with unaccountable bits of looking-glass sticking in among the
branches of the trees. There is a gleam of reason in the drawing-room.
But it is approached through a series of small chambers, like the joints
in a telescope, which are hung with inscrutable drapery. The maddest
man in Bedlam, having the materials given him, would be likely to devise
such a suite, supposing his case to be hopeless and quite incurable.
Pray tell Mrs. Watson, with my best regards, that the dance of the two
sisters in the little Christmas book is being done as an illustration by
Maclise; and that Stanfield is doing the battle-ground and the outside
of the Nutmeg Grater Inn. Maclise is also drawing some smaller subjects
for the little story, and they write me that they hope it will be very
pretty, and they think that I shall like it. I shall have been in London
before I see you, probably, and I hope the book itself will then be on
its road to Lausanne to speak for itself, and to speak a word for me
too. I have never left so many friendly and cheerful recollections in
any place; and to represent me in my absence, its tone should be very
eloquent and affectionate indeed.
Well, if I don't turn up again next summer it shall not be my fault. In
the meanwhile, I shall often and often look that way with my mind's eye,
and hear the sweet, clear, bell-like voice of ---- with the ear of my
imagination. In the event of there being any change--but it is not
likely--in the appearance of his cravat behind, where it goes up into
his head, I mean, and frets against his wig--I hope some one of my
English friends will apprise me of it, for the love of the great Saint
Bernard.
I have not seen Lord Normanby yet. I have not seen anything up to this
time but houses and lodgings. There seems to be immense excitement here
on the subject of ---- however, and a perfectly stupendous sensation
getting up. I saw the king the other day coming into Paris. His carriage
was surrounded by guards on horseback, and he sat very far back in it, I
thought, and drove at a great pace. It was strange to see the prefet of
police on horseback some hundreds of yards in advance, looking to the
right and left as he rode, like a man who suspected every twig in every
tree in the long avenue.
The English relations look anything but promising, though I understand
that the Count St. Aulaire is to remain in London, notwithstanding the
newspaper alarms to the contrary. If there be anything like the
sensation in England about ---- that there is here, there will be a
bitter resentment indeed. The democratic society of Paris have
announced, this morning, their intention of printing and circulating
fifty thousand copies of an appeal in every European language. It is a
base business beyond question, and comes at an ill time.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister desire their best regards to be sent to you
and their best loves to Mrs. Watson, in which I join, as nearly as I
may. Believe me, with great truth,
Very sincerely yours.
P.S.--Mrs. Dickens is going to write to Mrs. Watson next week, she says.
[Sidenote: M. Cerjat.]
PARIS, 48, RUE DE COURCELLES, ST. HONORE,
_Friday, Nov. 27th, 1846._