Biarritz, September 20, 1861.

Dear Friend: I am still here, like the bird on the branch. It is not the custom to form plans in advance; on the contrary, never until the last moment does one make a resolution. Nothing has been said as to the time of our departure, yet the days are growing shorter. The most tedious time of the day is the evening; it is cold after dinner, and with the arrangement of doors and windows invented here it is impossible to keep warm. All this makes me think that we shall not stay here much longer.

I am thinking of making a visit to M. Fould, at Tarbes, so that I may profit by these last beautiful days; after that I shall return to Paris, where I shall hope to find you settled. The sea air is doing me good. My breathing is better, but I sleep badly. ‘Tis true, I am immediately on the sea-shore, where the slightest wind makes a terrible uproar.

As in all imperial residences, the time is spent here in doing nothing, while waiting for something to happen. I work a little; I sketch from my window, and walk a great deal. There are few people stopping at the EugÉnie Villa, and they are people whom I like well enough. While the days here have twenty-four hours, as they have in Paris, I find that the time passes without much difficulty....

We took a charming walk yesterday along the Pyrenees, near enough to see the mountains in all their glory, yet not near enough to suffer from the incessant inconvenience of climbing and descending them. We lost our way, and met no one who understood our beautiful French language. This always happens as soon as one passes beyond the outskirts of Bayonne.

The Prince Imperial yesterday gave a dinner to a flock of children. The emperor himself made champagne for them out of seltzer-water, which had the same effect as if they had drunk real wine. In a quarter of an hour they were all tipsy, and my ears still ache from the racket they made.

Good-bye, dear friend. I have had the temerity to promise to translate for his Majesty a Spanish memoir on the site of Munda, and I have just made the discovery that it is terribly difficult to translate.

You may write here until the 23d or 24th. Send your letters after that to M. Fould, at Tarbes. Good-bye.