Perpignan, November 14.

You have been such a long time writing to me that I began to be very uneasy. Besides, I have been harassed by an absurd idea which I have not dared to tell you before. I was visiting the amphitheatre at NÎmes with an architect of the department, who was explaining to me at length the repairs which he had made there, when I saw, ten feet away, a lovely bird, a little larger than a tomtit, with a linen-gray body and wings of red, black, and white. This bird was perched on a cornice, gazing at me fixedly. I interrupted the architect, who is a great sportsman, to ask him the name of the bird. He told me he had never seen one like it. I approached, and, until I was close enough to touch it, the bird did not take flight, perching a few steps beyond, and still watching me. Wherever I went, the bird seemed to follow, for I saw it on every tier of the amphitheatre. It had no companion, and its flight was noiseless, like that of a bird of night.

The next day I returned to the amphitheatre, and there was my bird again. I had brought some bread with me, which I threw to it. The bird looked at the food, but would not touch it. I then tempted it with a big grasshopper, thinking from the shape of the bill that it would eat insects, but the bird paid no attention to the grasshopper. The most learned ornithologist in the city told me that no birds of that species lived in the country.

Finally, when I visited the amphitheatre for the last time, I found my bird again, still pursuing my steps, following me even into a narrow, dark corridor, where, bird of light that it was, it should not have dared to venture.

I recalled then that the Duchess of Buckingham had seen her husband in the form of a bird the day of his assassination, and the thought came to me that you were dead, perhaps, and that you had assumed this form in order to visit me. In spite of myself I could not shake off this foolish idea, and I was delighted, I assure you, to see that your letter bore the date of the day when I had first seen my inexplicable bird.

I arrived here during atrocious weather. A rain, the like of which is never seen in the north, has deluged the entire country, cutting up the roads and transforming the rivulets into great rivers. It is impossible for me to leave the city to go to Serrabonne, where I have business. I do not know how long this condition of things will continue.

There is a fair in progress at Perpignan. Besides, most of the Spaniards fleeing from the epidemic come to this town, so that I have not been able to find lodgings at any of the inns. Had I not succeeded in exciting the sympathy of a hat manufacturer I should have been compelled to sleep in the street. The little room in which I am writing is very cold, and I am sitting before a smoky chimney-place, execrating the rain which beats against my window-panes. The servant who attends me speaks only Catalonian, and understands me only when I speak in Spanish. I have no books, and do not know a soul in the place. Finally, and worse than all, if a north wind does not rise I shall be obliged to stay here I don’t know how long. I am unable even to return to Norbonne, for the bridge which might assure my retreat is unsafe, and should the water rise it will be carried away. An admirable situation this for reflection and for writing one’s thoughts. But as for thoughts, I have none left. I can only fume and fret, and have hardly sufficient energy even to write to you. You do not mention having received a letter which I wrote you at Arles. Perhaps it crossed with yours.

I went to the fountain of Vaucluse, where I was tempted to inscribe your name; but there were so many wretched verses there, so many Sophies and Carolines, etc., that I did not wish to desecrate your name by putting it in such bad company. It is the wildest spot imaginable, with nothing there but water and rocks. The only vegetation is a fig-tree which has pushed its way, somehow or other, up through the rocks, and a few lovely capillary plants, of which I enclose a specimen. When you have taken capillary syrup for a cold, you have not known, perhaps, that this plant had such a charming form.

I shall be in Paris about the 15th of next month. I do not know which route I shall take. It is possible that I may return by way of Bordeaux, but if the weather does not improve I shall go by way of Toulouse. In that event I shall reach Paris a fortnight earlier. I shall hope to find a letter from you at Toulouse. If it does not come I shall be mortally offended with you.

Good-bye.