I am thinking again of Sainte-Beuve. Without doubt one can get along without thirty thousand francs a year. But there is something easier yet: that is, when one has them, not to launch into abuse, every week, in the papers. Why doesn't he write books, since he is rich and has talent?
I am just now reading Don Quichotte again. What a tremendous old book! Is there any more beautiful?
CVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 7 March, 1869
Still alone with my grandchildren; my nephews and friends come to spend two out of every three days with me, but I miss Maurice and Lina. Poor Calamatta is at the last gasp.
Give me the address of the Goncourts, you have never given it to me.
Shall I never know it? My letter is still waiting there for them.
I love you and embrace you. I love you much, much, and I embrace you very warmly.
G. Sand
CIX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 12 March, 1869
Poor Calamatta died the 9th, my children are coming back. My Lina must be distressed. I have news from them only by telegraph. From Milan here in an hour and a half. But there are no details, and I am anxious. I embrace you tenderly,
G. Sand