Friday, one o’clock, 1867.
My dear old boys! On arriving at Paris, the day before yesterday, I learned of your nomination through Scholl’s article. So my pleasure was mingled with annoyance.
Then, last evening, the princess told me you were in Paris. If you were in the habit of opening your door to the people that knock at it, I should have presented myself at midnight, to embrace you.
How shall we meet?—for I must return this evening. It is not you, Edmond, I wish to compliment so much as Jules, to whom the nomination must give more pleasure than it gives to you. The fifteenth of next August will be the date for your turn, I suppose.
Adieu, dear old fellows, I embrace you both most tenderly.
I wrote to you at Trouville, poste restante. Have you received my letter?
P.S.—A sudden thought seizes me. What do you intend to do this evening? Where shall you be at five minutes before midnight? Is it not possible that I might dine with you? Where shall we see each other?
You know that this is worn as soon as the news is printed in the Moniteur. So here is a little gift from your friend. Cut the ribbon and wear it. Cut it in half, because there is enough for two.
TO GEORGE SAND.
Wednesday night, 1867.