Paris, September 12, 1865, at night.

Dear Friend: I have been here for several days. I came by way of Boulogne, and while our boat was being moored at the quay there was such a crowd that I asked myself what could be so interesting in the arrival of a steam-boat. The English ladies will have to be warned that in walking at low tide along the edge of the wharf they make a great exhibition of legs, and even more. My modesty received a shock.

Paris this year is more empty than ever, but I enjoy it in that state. I rise and go to bed late. I read a great deal, and scarcely ever get out of my dressing-gown. I have a Japanese one, with flowers on a jonquil-yellow background, more brilliant than the electric light.

My stay in England was not, after all, very tiresome. Besides a number of pleasant excursions which I made, I wrote for the Journal des Savants that article on the Life of Julius Caesar, of which I have already made mention to you. As it was the editors in person who imposed this task on me, I was obliged to acquiesce. You know how much I value the author and his book; but you may understand the difficulties of my position, not wishing to be considered as a flatterer, nor to say unbecoming things. I think I managed to get out of the difficulty fairly well.

I took for a text the fact that the Republic had reached its limit, and that the Roman people were going to the devil, if Caesar had not delivered them. As the thesis is true and easily supported, I wrote variations on this air. I will save one of the proofs for you.

Manners are still progressing. A son of prince de C. has just died in Rome. He left a brother and sisters in straitened circumstances. He was an ecclesiastic, a monseigneur, and had an income of two hundred thousand pounds, and every penny of it he has left to a little abbÉ of a secretary that he had. It is precisely as if Nicomedes had bequeathed his kingdom to Caesar. I wager that you do not see the point at all.

I, too, was anxious to go to Germany, and might have surprised you, perhaps, in Munich, but my plan came to naught. I was going to see my friend, Kaullo, that excellent Jew whom I have mentioned to you more than once. But he himself is coming to France, therefore I have given up my idea of Germany. One of my friends returning from Switzerland is not enthusiastic over the weather there; which softens my disappointment.

It seems to me that Boulogne is becoming more beautiful in its buildings no less than in its citizens. I saw fish-women stylishly dressed, and very pretty modern dwellings; but what English women there were, and what pork-pie hats!

Yesterday I called to see the princess Murat, who has almost recovered from her terrible fall. The only signs still remaining are a bruised eye and a cheek slightly discoloured. She gave a vivid account of the accident. She has lost entire consciousness of her fall, and of the following three or four hours. She remembers seeing her coachman, who was a Swiss colonel, thrown up in the air, high above her head; then, four hours later, she found herself in her own bed, with her head big as a gourd. In the interval she walked and talked, but has no recollection of anything. I hope, and think it probable, that during the last moments before death comes, there is also a loss of consciousness.

I found the countess de Montijo entirely recovered from her two operations. She is enthusiastic in praise of her oculist, Liebreich, who seems to be a wonderful man. Try never to require his services.

Good-bye, dear friend. I am going early next week, for three days, to Trouville. I shall then remain here until winter drives me away. Keep me informed of all you do, and of your intentions.