Paris, September 7, 1869.

Dear Friend: Do you expect to remain much longer at ——? Shall you not return here soon? While I have not as yet felt any sign of the approach of winter, I am beginning to look towards the South, for I have promised myself not to allow myself to be surprised by the cold. For several days I have been a little better, or, to speak more exactly, less ill. I have taken compressed-air baths, which have done me a little good, and I follow a new treatment which is tolerably successful. I am still solitary. I never go out at night, and see almost no one. By the help of all these precautions I am alive, or nearly so. BÜlow succeeded in enticing me off.

At Saint Cloud the empress had me read The Bear (it is called Lokis now, which is bear in Jmoude) before some young girls, who, as I think I told you, understood nothing at all. This encourages me, and on the 15th of this month the thing will appear in the Revue. I have made several changes besides the names, and I wished to make still others, but my courage failed me. You will tell me what you think of it.

Yesterday we concluded our little matter.[44] I am uncertain as to the result. The respectable public is so hopelessly stupid, that what it formerly desired, now inspires it with fear. I have a suspicion that the bourgeois, who voted for M. Ferry a few months ago, now think that before some days in June, more or less remote, he will find himself disarmed. His distinguishing characteristic is never to be satisfied, with his own achievements especially.

The emperor’s illness is not serious, but it may be tedious, and there may be a return of it. It is said, and I am inclined to believe it, that the great journey to the Orient will be countermanded; possibly the strained relations existing between the sultan and the viceroy are considered of sufficient importance to wreck the plans for the proposed excursion.

Have you read, in the Journal des Savants, the history of the princess Tarakanof? This is not new, however, and I believe I have shown you the proofs.

I have in mind to write, this winter, a Life of Cervantes, to serve as a preface to a new edition of Don Quixote. Has it been a long time since you have read Don Quixote? Does it still amuse you? Have you ever tried to explain why? I find it amusing, and yet I can give no valid reason; on the contrary, I can think of many things about the book which should prove that it is worthless; nevertheless, it is excellent. I should like to know your ideas on the subject. Do me the kindness to read over several chapters, and ask yourself these questions. I depend on you to do me this favour.

Good-bye. I hope the month will not pass without seeing you.