“She told him the garden wall had tumbled down.
“‘Oh, it is nothing, madame, the frost did it.’
“‘Yes, but it must be rebuilt.’
“‘It’s only the frost, that’s all.’
“‘I do not say it is not the frost, but there it is on the ground.’
“‘Don’t worry about it, madame, the frost did it.’
“I can write no more. I must go to bed.”
To H. Ferrand.
“11th June 1867.—Thanks for your letter, dear friend, it did me good.
“Yes, I am in Paris, but so ill I can hardly write. Besides, I am worried about Louis, who is in Mexico, and I do not know what those Mexican ruffians may not be up to.