“When you come back we will gather together our choice spirits, our good men and true, and read Coriolanus. I only really live in watching the enthusiasm of fresh sympathetic souls—undeadened by the world.
“I quite enjoyed at Vienne making my nieces cry over it. They are dear girls, impressionable as a photographic plate—which is rather odd, seeing that they have always lived in that most provincial of provinces, among utterly anti-literary people.
“My thick autobiography awaits you, but remember, it is yours only for the time it takes you and Massart to read it. It is very sad, but very true.
“I am quite ashamed that I had not the sense to speak of the many calm, sweet hours I owe to you, and of my deep affection for you both. I have only just noticed that you are not even mentioned.
“Ah, the pain! Madame, forgive me. I can write no more!”
To Louis Berlioz.
“13th November 1865.—Dear Boy,—Your letter has just come, and I want to reply before I go back to bed.
“How I suffer! If I could I would fly off to Palermo or to Nice.
“It is horrible weather. I have to light a lamp at half-past three.
“To-night is our Monday dinner, and as I shall have to get up and go to it, I want to snatch a little sleep first.