In his will he left instructions to Léonie that all his books and papers should be given to Philip, charging the latter to consult with four friends in order to decide what to do with the unedited works: myself, D’Osmoy, you, and Caudron. He left a volume of excellent poems, four plays in prose, and Mademoiselle Aïssé. The manager of the Odéon does not like the second act of this play; I do not know what he will do.
It will be necessary for you and D’Osmoy to come here this winter, so that we may decide what shall be published. My head troubles me too much for me to continue now, and besides, what more can I say?
Adieu! I embrace you tenderly. There is only you now, only you! Do you remember when we wrote Solus ad solum?
In all the letters I have received I find this phrase: “We must close up our ranks.” One gentleman, whom I do not know, has sent his card, with these two words: Sunt lacrymæ!
TO EDMOND DE GONCOURT.
Sunday evening, 1870.
How I pity you, my poor friend! Your letter overcame me this morning. Except for the personal confidence you made me (which you may be sure I shall keep), it told me nothing new, or rather, I mean that I had guessed all that you wrote me. I think of you every day and many times a day. The memory of my lost friends leads me fatally to the thought of you! The schedule has been well filled during the past year—your brother, Bouilhet, Sainte-Beuve, and Duplan! My dreams are darkened by the shadows of tombs, among which I walk.
But I dare not complain to you; for your grief must surpass all those one could feel or imagine.
Do you wish me to speak of myself, my dear Edmond? Well, I am engrossed in a work that gives me much pain,—it is the preface to Bouilhet’s book. I have glided over the biographical part as much as possible. I shall write more at length after an examination of his works, and still more upon his (or our) literary doctrines.
I have re-read all that he ever wrote. I have run through our old letters. I have found a series of souvenirs, some of which are thirty years old. It is not very cheerful work, as you may imagine! And besides, here at Croisset, I am pursued by his phantom, which I find behind every bush in the garden, on the divan in my study, and even among my garments—in my dressing-gown, which sometimes he used to wear.