Now listen.  Alexandre Dumas does write his own books, that’s a fact.  You know I always maintained it, through the odour of Dumas in the books, but people swore the contrary with great foolish oaths worth nothing.  Maquet prepares historical materials, gathers together notes, and so on, but Dumas writes every word of his books with his own hand, and with a facility amounting to inspiration, said my informant.  He called him a great savage negro child.  If he has twenty sous and wants bread, he buys a pretty cane instead.  For the rest, ‘bon enfant,’ kind and amiable.  An inspired negro child!  In debt at this moment, after all the sums he has made, said my informant—­himself a most credible witness and highly cultivated man.

I heard of Eugene Sue, too, yesterday.  Our child is invited to a Christmas tree and party, and Robert says he is too young to go, but I persist in sending him for half an hour with Wilson—­oh, really I must—­though he will be by far the youngest of the thirty children invited.  The lady of the house, Miss Fitton, an English resident in Paris, an elderly woman, shrewd and kind, said to Robert that she had a great mind to have Eugene Sue, only he was so scampish.  I think that was the word, or something alarmingly equivalent.  Now I should like to see Eugene Sue with my little innocent child in his arms; the idea of the combination pleases me somewhat.  But I sha’n’t see it in any case.  We had three cold days last week, which brought back my cough and took away my voice.  I am dumb for the present and can’t go out any more....

At last I have caught sight of an advertisement of your book.  A very catching title, and if I mayn’t compliment you upon it, I certainly do your publisher.  I dare say the book is charming, and the more of yourself in it, the more charming.

Write, and say how you are always when you write.  Say, too, how you continue to like your new house.  We heard a good deal of you from Mr. Fields, though he came to us only once.  With him came Mr. Longfellow, the poet’s brother, who is at present in Paris—­I mean the brother, not the poet.  Robert’s love, may I say?

Wiedeman has struck up two friendships:  one, with the small daughter of our concierge and one with a little Russian princess, a month younger than himself.  He calls them both ‘boys,’ having no idea yet of the less sublime sex, but he likes the plebeian best.  May God make you happy on this and other seasons!

Love your affectionate and grateful
BA.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Martin

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees:  January 17, [1852].