Paris, September 20, 1859.

There is certainly an evil genius who interferes in our affairs. I fear that I shall have to go without seeing you. I had planned to leave Paris the 30th, in order to be in Bayonne the 1st. It turns out that in the Madrid diligences and mail-coaches, every place is engaged until October 16th. There is nothing to do, therefore, but to go by sea—that is, to go by steam-boat from Marseilles to Alicante. If some new difficulty does not arise, I shall reach Marseilles the evening of the 28th (my birthday, parenthetically), and the 29th I shall be on the way.

Although you have kept me in a shocking rage this summer with your ifs and your noes, it makes me very miserable, I assure you, to go without bidding you good-bye. After living such an age without seeing you, to enter again on another term of absence almost as long! Who knows if you will be in Paris when I return? I am starting with all sorts of dismal thoughts; I hope yours are more rose-coloured.

My little visit to Tarbes did me good, and I imagine the air of the suburbs of Madrid will complete my cure. As always happens when I am about to go on a journey, I have an inclination for work, which I should never feel, doubtless, if I had remained at home. I am taking paper with me in order to write in Madrid. Think of me the 29th of this month. I shall in all probability be ill, while you will be in consultation with your dressmaker on the subject of your fall gowns. The Gulf of Lyons is always abominable, and it will probably be worse than ever at this equinoctial season, which was created for my express annoyance.

To turn to the bright side of the prospect, I shall find, on my arrival in Alicante, a railroad which will take me to Madrid in one day, instead of being obliged to spend three days being jolted in the worst of coaches, over the roughest ruts that one can imagine. During my absence I shall probably have some commissions to give you. However, we have plenty of time to speak of them, for I do not like to form plans long in advance, especially with you, who, as you know, sometimes forget them.

You will find Paris entirely empty. I know of a good many persons who are leaving, but, except yourself, I know of none who are returning. The trees are parched, the peaches are all gone, and the grapes are good for nothing. If you have been eating ortolans in Dauphiny, you will not think much of the game which you will find in Paris. I am not guilty of the sin of gluttony and am never hungry any more, and pay no attention to what I have to eat.

I regret Paris; I should have seen you there. That is its only attraction for me. Good-bye. You might write me once more here, until the 27th. I fancy—think of the absurdity of it!—that you may surprise me by arriving the 26th.