Cannes, January 7, 1859.

I am settled here in some sort of fashion. The weather is cold but magnificent. From ten o’clock until four the sun is warm; but hardly has it touched the summit of the mountains of the EstÉrel, when there arises a keen wind from the Alps which cuts you in two. Nevertheless, I feel much better than when I was in Paris. I have had no paroxysms of pain, and the cough I brought away with me is entirely cured from being in the open air; only I eat nothing at all, and sleep but so-so.

On account of my nervous temperament, I became the other day terribly irritated and was obliged to dismiss my servant, to turn him out on the spot. Persons of that class imagine themselves necessary to you and abuse your patience. I have found a fellow here to take care of my clothes, who is like a cat walking on ice with nut-shells on his feet. I should like to discover a treasure such as I have sometimes seen—some one who would understand my wishes without putting me to the necessity of speaking.

Englishmen are here in great numbers. I dined day before yesterday at Lord Brougham’s, with I don’t know how many misses, freshly arrived from Scotland, to whom the sight of the sun seemed to cause immense surprise. If I had the talent to describe costumes, I should amuse you with the description of theirs. You have never seen anything to equal them since the invention of crinoline.

I am reading the Memoirs of Catherine II. As a representation of manners and customs it is remarkable. This and the Memoirs of the Margrave of Bayruth give a singular idea of the people of the eighteenth century, and especially of the court-life of the period. When Catherine II married the grand duke, who became afterwards Peter III, she had a wealth of diamonds and beautiful brocade gowns, and yet her living apartment consisted of a single room, which served as a passageway to her women, who, twenty-six in number, all slept in one room beside that of the queen. There is not a tradesman’s wife to-day who does not live more comfortably than did empresses a hundred years ago.

The memoirs of Catherine stop, unfortunately, at the most interesting moment, before the death of Elisabeth. She says enough, however, to give the strongest reasons for believing that Paul I was the son of a Prince Soltykof. It is a singular thing that the manuscript in which all these choice incidents are related she dedicated to her son, this same Paul I.

I have learned that you executed conscientiously my commission for the purchase of books. I have even received Olga’s acknowledgments. She seems enchanted with her portion. One book especially, something about Gems of Poetry (?), has produced a tremendous effect. I inclose her eulogies. I hope your fertile imagination will not rest with this success, and that it will find me something for my cousin, Sainte Eulalie.

Good-bye, dear friend. I should like to send you a little of my sunshine. Take care of yourself, and think of me. The prigadiou is remarkably well. After his fast of six weeks he has begun to eat again. He devoured three flies the day of his arrival in Cannes. At present, he has become so fastidious that he will eat nothing but the heads. Good-bye again....