Chapter CCCXXVI: CANNES, April 7, 1870

I have not written before, because I had only bad news to give you. I have been constantly, if not ill, at any rate in pain. I am still so. I am distressingly weak, and I am unable to walk a hundred steps from my home without sitting down several times to rest. Frequently, especially in the night, I have attacks of excruciating pain, which last a long time. “Nerves!” they tell me. Now, medicine, as you know, is almost ineffectual when it is a question of nerves.

Last Monday, wishing to make an experiment and find out if I could stand the journey to Paris, I went to Nice, and made a few calls. I thought at one time that I should be guilty of the indiscretion of dying in the home of a person whom I did not know intimately enough to take that liberty with. I returned here in a bad condition, and spent twenty-four hours in a state of suffocation.

Yesterday I was a little better. I went out and walked along the sea-shore, followed by a folding-chair on which I sat down every ten steps. Such is my life. I hope by the end of the month to be able to start for Paris. Will it be possible? I often wonder if I shall be strong enough to climb my stairway. You, who know so many things, do you know of some apartment in which I might put away my books and myself, without climbing many steps? I should not care to be too far away from the Institute.

I received a letter, very well turned, from M. Émile Ollivier, soliciting my vote.[46] I replied to him that I was no longer of this world. I think he will be elected without opposition.

How right you are in your judgment that we have gone mad! The clumsy assertion that to consult the people concerning the constitution is to create a despotism, is proof sufficient of what false metal it is cast! But the saddest of all is that no one is revolted by such absurdity. In reality, we are living in a period when there is no longer such a thing as ridicule or absurdity. Anything is said and anything is printed without shame.

I do not know when the review of Cervantes will appear; it will precede a splendid and beautiful edition of _Don Quixote_, which I will make you read one of these days. As for the story which I mentioned to you I shall reserve it to come out with my posthumous works. Still, if you wish to read it in manuscript, you may have this pleasure, which will take a quarter of an hour.

Good-bye, dear friend. Take good care of yourself. Health is the best of possessions. I shall not stir from here before the end of April. I expect to find you in Paris. Again good-bye.

CCCXXVII

CANNES, _May 15, 1870_.

DEAR FRIEND: I have been very ill, and am still. I have been allowed only the last few days to venture out of doors. I am horribly weak, yet am encouraged to hope that by the end of next week I may start on my journey. I shall return, probably, by easy stages, for I could not endure twenty-four hours of steady railroad travel.

My health is irrevocably ruined. I can not yet accustom myself to this life of privation and suffering, but whether I am resigned or not, I am condemned to it. I wish I might at least find distraction in occupation; but, in order to work, I need to have an amount of strength which is lacking. I envy greatly some of my friends who have been enabled to depart this life suddenly, with no suffering, and with none of the vexatious warnings that come to me day by day.

The political turmoil of which you speak has penetrated also to this little corner of the earth. I have seen here plainly instances of the ignorance and stupidity of men. I am convinced that very few voters have any conception of what they are doing. The Reds, who are in the majority here, have persuaded the imbeciles, who are even more numerous, that the matter at stake is the establishment of new taxes. Anyway, the result was fortunate.[47] “It is well cut out; now it is a question of sewing,” as Catherine de Medici said to Henry III. Unfortunately, I can see in this land of ours, just now, scarcely any one who is skilful in the use of the needle.

What do you think of my friend M. Thiers, who, after the experience of the banquets of 1848, has resumed the same tactics? It is said that magpies are never caught, twice running, with the same snare; but men, and men of intelligence, are more easily snared.

I am thinking of giving up my lodging, and I should like to find one nearer the ground, and in your quarter. Can you give me any information and any suggestions on this subject?...

Nothing could be more beautiful than the country about here at this season. Flowers abound everywhere in such profusion, and of such beauty, that verdure in the landscape is exceptional. Good-bye.

CCCXXVIII

PARIS, _June 26, 1870_.

DEAR FRIEND: I have been ill for a month. It is impossible for me to do anything, even read. I am a great sufferer, and have little hope. This may endure, perhaps, a long time.

I have put one of the shelves of my library in order, and am keeping for you the _Lettres de Madame de Sévigné_, in twelve volumes, and a small Shakespeare. When you return to Paris I will send them to you. I thank you for thinking of me.