Paris, October 21, 1858.

Here I am back in this city of Paris, where I am furious not to find you. It begins to be cold and dismal, and still no one has returned. I left Cannes in admirable weather, which became greyer and greyer with every step I took towards the North.

Pity me! While in Venice I bought a chandelier, which arrived yesterday broken in three places. The Jew who sold it to me promised to make good any damage, but what power have I to compel him to do so?

I have not yet become accustomed to sleeping in my own bed. I feel like a stranger here, and do not know what to do with my time. It would be altogether different if you were in Paris.

I bought in Cannes that strange animal, the prigadiou, whose portrait I have made for you. It is still alive, but I fear that you will find it no longer in this world. It lives on flies, and flies are beginning to be scarce. I have still a dozen which I am fattening. My friends think I am thinner. It seems to me that my health is a trifle better than before I went away....