Chapter CLXXII

PARIS, _Monday evening, January 20, 1858_.

It is a century since I saw you. ‘Tis true that many things have happened in the interval. I am consumed with the wish to know what you think of it all. My cold and influenza are somewhat improved, and the credit of my cure I attribute to our last walk. It is not unlike the lance of Achilles.

Have you read _Doctor Antonio_? It is an English novel which has achieved no little success among English fashionable society, and which I read while at Cannes. It is the work of M. Orsini. There will be, no doubt, a new edition in London, and you must read it. To tell the truth, it is not very clever.

Write to me soon, I pray you, for I need to see you to make me forget all the miseries of this world.