No, there are not too many “horrors” (for my personal taste, there are not even enough!—but that is a question of temperament). You stopped just at the very limit. There are exquisite traits,—the old man who coughs, for instance, and the head surgeon among his pupils, etc. The conclusion is superb—I mean the death of Barnier.
It was necessary, perhaps, for you to make your romance in six volumes, but it must have been a wearisome piece of work. They say it is impossible to please everyone; but I am convinced that your Sister Philoméne will have a great success, and shall not be at all surprised at it.
I have said nothing about your style, for it has been a long time since I first congratulated you upon that!
Romaine excites my admiration beyond bounds. “Ah! To touch, as you touched, to cut, as you cut there yourself.” Here a true and deep note is sounded.
I am as proud of you as I am displeased with myself. Alas! My good friends, things do not go well. It seems to me that Salammbô is stupid enough to kill one! There is too much talk of the unsettled conditions of ancient times, always battles, always furious people. One longs for cradling verdure and a milk diet! Berquin would seem delicious after this. In short, I am not contented. I believe my plan is bad, but it is too late to change it, because everything now is fully settled.
What do you intend to do next? How goes La Jeune Bourgeoise? Write to me when you have nothing better to do, for I think of you very often.
Adieu! A thousand thanks, and a thousand sincere compliments! I embrace you.
TO ERNEST FEYDEAU.
1861.
What a man was old Father Hugo! Heavens! what a poet! I have just devoured his two volumes. I need you! I need Bouilhet! I need some intelligent auditor! I want to bawl three thousand verses as no one else ever has bawled them! Did I say bawl?—I meant howl! I do not recognize myself—I do not know what possesses me! Ah! that has done me good!