Mario Proth will give me tomorrow or next day the exact date on the transformation of the journal.  Tomorrow I shall go out and buy your dear mother’s shoes.  Next week I am going to Palaiseau and I shall hunt up my book on faience.  If I forget anything, remind me of it.

I have been ill for two days.  I am cured.  Your letter does my heart good.  I shall answer all the questions quite nicely, as you have answered mine.  One is happy, don’t you think so, to be able to relate one’s whole life?  It is much less complicated than the bourgeois think, and the mysteries that one can reveal to a friend are always the contrary of what indifferent ones suppose.

I was very happy that week with you:  no care, a good nesting-place a lovely country, affectionate hearts and your beautiful and frank face which has a somewhat paternal air.  Age has nothing to do with it.  One feels in you the protection of infinite goodness, and one evening when you called your mother “My daughter,” two tears came in my eyes.  It was hard to go away, but I hindered your work, and then,—­and then,—­a malady of my old age is, not being able to keep still.  I am afraid of getting too attached and of wearying others.  The old ought to be extremely discreet.  From a distance I can tell you how much I love you without the fear of repetition.  You are one of the rare beings remaining impressionable, sincere, loving art, not corrupted by ambition, not drunk with success.  In short you will always be twenty-five years of age because of all sorts of ideas which have become old-fashioned according to the senile young men of today.  With them, I think it is decidedly a pose, but it is so stupid!  If it is a weakness, it is still worse.  They are men of letters and not men.  Good luck to the novel!  It is exquisite; but oddly enough there is one entire side of you which does not betray itself in what you do, something that you probably are ignorant of.  That will come later, I am sure of it.

I embrace you tenderly, and your mother too, and the charming niece! [Footnote:  Madame Caroline Commanville.] Ah!  I forgot, I saw Couture this evening; he told me that in order to be nice to you, he would make your portrait in crayon like mine for whatever price you wish to arrange.  You see I am a good commissioner, use me.

XXVIII.  TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT 16 November, 1866

Thanks, dear friend of my heart, for all the trouble that I gave you with my Berrichon Despruneaux.  They are friends from the old country, a whole adorable family of fine people, fathers, children, wives, nephews, all in the close circle at Nohant.  He must have been moved at seeing you.  He looked forward to it, all personal interest aside.  And I who am not practical, forgot to tell you that the judgment would not be given for a fortnight.  That in consequence any preceding within the next two weeks would be extremely