Paris, September 8, 1857.

WHILE you are devoting yourself to the cultivation of enthusiasm, I continue to cough, and am very ill with a frightful cold. I hope you will be touched by this. I do not understand why you should remain three days in Lucerne, unless you spend your time on the lake. But it is useless to give you advice which will reach you too late. My only word of admonition, and one, I trust, by which you will profit, is not to forget your friends in France, in the beautiful country you are now visiting.

There is positively not a soul in Paris, but I am not averse to the solitude. I am spending my evenings comfortably enough, doing nothing. If I were not feeling really miserable, I should find this quiet extremely pleasant, and I should like it to continue the whole year. The surprises which you encounter in your travels must be amusing, and it is a source of regret to me that I am unable to witness them. If you had exercised a little strategy in arranging your plans, we might have met somewhere in the course of your journey and made an excursion or two together, and caught a glimpse of some chamois or, at any rate, some black squirrels.

Were I not so ill that it is impossible to form two consecutive ideas, I should take advantage of your absence in order to work. I have a promise to fulfil with the Revue des Deux Mondes, and a Life of BrantÔme to write, in which I have quantities of rash things to say. It amuses me to arrange and rearrange the sentences in my mind, but when it comes to the point of leaving my easy-chair and of going to my desk to put them on paper, my courage fails me. I am sorry you did not take with you a volume of Beyle on Italy, for it would have entertained you on the way, and it would have given you, besides, some knowledge of social conditions there. Beyle was especially fond of Milan, because it was there he fell in love. I have never been there, but I have never cared for the Milanese whom I have met, for they have always reminded me of French provincials.

In Venice, if you should come across any old Latin book from the printing-house of Aldus, with a wide margin, if it does not cost too much, buy it for me. You will recognise it by the letters in italics, and by the trade-mark, which is a unicorn wrestling with a dolphin. Travelling with such a large party as you are, I fancy you will write to me very seldom. You might, however, grant me the delight of an occasional letter, and give me renewed patience, for, as you are aware, I do not possess your virtue.

Good-bye. Enjoy yourself, and see as many beautiful things as you can, but do not conceive the idea of seeing everything. You must say to yourself, “I shall return.” Your memory will always be stored with reminiscences enough to keep you from being dull. I should like to ride in a gondola with you. Once more good-bye. Above all things, take care of yourself, and do not overtire.