Adieu. In ten days my leg will be much better; but I shall have written to you again before then. I will tell you my reveries, one by one. You will count for much in my idleness; which is for me the mother of memories.
I am glad to know that all goes well in your States. But, on the word of an honest man, I don't understand why the count does not arrange his affairs so as to have no longer any care. When I have settled mine—and I shall then be, incontestably, a far greater financier than he—I will go and offer him my services to make something out of nothing—forgive that joke!
All gracious things to Mademoiselle Séverine, and to your dear Anna; my affectionate compliments to the Grand Marshal, and to you the most precious and sweetest offerings of my heart.
No Custine, no pearls; that is a loss to you, for the set is very fine; you would have been queen of the balls at Kiew next winter. But you will be that without the pearls.
Aux Jardies, July, 1839.
I am cured. The accident, which kept me in bed forty days without moving, has left no traces except some pain in the muscles. But your silence disquiets me much. Is anything going wrong with you? Are you travelling? All this exercises my mind, tortures me, besieges me with a thousand dragon-fancies.
I am overwhelmed with business. The disaster of my fallen walls is not yet repaired. I have been obliged to purchase land, which has ruined me. The masons must be here for another month. It is all the more impossible for me to get away because my illness has put my work into arrears, and also because I have let one of the three houses on the place to the Visconti family.[1]
A novel of mine is about to appear, named "Pierrette," with which you will no doubt be pleased. "Une Princesse Parisienne" will also be out soon. "Véronique," the second fragment of the "Curé de village," is already out. "Les Paysans," that is, "Qui Terre a, Guerre a," is in process of being bought and published by the "Constitutionnel." And finally "Le Ménage d'un Garçon" and "Le Martyr calviniste" are in the hands of the compositors of the "Siècle;" "Massimilla Doni," appears with the true edition of "La Fille d'Ève;" "Béatrix" is nearly printed. I am now going to work on the last part of "Illusions Perdues," finish the "Curé de village," and do a great drama for the Porte-Saint-Martin.
There, dear, there is where we now are; and I have certainly drawn down upon me the hatred of all the men of the pen by "Un Grand homme de Province." Growls resound in the press. But you see I continue my work intrepidly, keeping on with even steps, and tolerably insensible to calumny—like all those who have never given cause for slander.
I shall have three houses to let, each looking out on inclosed gardens; and I will only let this elegant village to extremely distinguished people. Our railway will begin to run in a few days, and I can enter a carriage from my garden; so that I am really in the heart of Paris (which I have never been before), because for eight sous and in fifteen or twenty minutes I am there. So I am enchanted with Les Jardies. When all the necessary ground is bought and the gardens planted, it will be delicious, and envied by all the world. Railways change all the conditions of life around Paris. I have still some things to remove from Chaillot; some furniture to bring out; so that various material annoyances have delayed this letter, for I can trust no one to do anything. I am alone, bachelor that I am, without servants, except a gardener and his wife. I will have nothing until my debts are paid. So I am living devilishly, without in the least caring what people think of me; for I will attain to independence and tranquillity.