You must not be a Norman, you must come and see us for several days, you will make us happy; and it will restore the blood in my veins and the joy in my heart.

Love your old troubadour always and talk to him of Paris; a few words when you have the time.

Outline a scene for Nohant with four or five characters, we shall enjoy it.  We embrace you and summon you.

G. Sand

LXIII.  TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croisset Nohant, 18 August, 1867

Where are you, my dear old fellow?  If by chance you should be in Paris, during the first few days of September, let us try to see each other.  I shall stay there three days and I shall return here.  But I do not hope to meet you there.  You ought to be in some lovely country, far from Paris and from its dust.  I do not know even if my letter will reach you.  Never mind, if you can give news of yourself, do so.  I am in despair.  I have lost suddenly, without even knowing that he was ill, my poor dear, old friend, Rollinat, an angel of goodness, of courage, of devotion.  It is a heavy blow for me.  If you were here you would give me courage; but my poor children are as overwhelmed as I am.  We adored him, all the countryside adored him.

Keep well, and think sometimes of your absent friends.  We embrace you affectionately.  The little one is very well, she is charming.

LXIV.  TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Paris Nohant, August, 1867

I bless you, my dear old fellow, for the kind thought that you had of coming; but you were right not to travel while you were ill.  Ah! my God, I dream of nothing but illness and unhappiness:  take care of yourself, my old comrade.  I shall go to see you if I can pull myself together; for, since this new dagger-thrust, I am feeble and crushed and I have a sort of fever.  I shall write you a line from Paris.  If you are prevented, you must answer me by telegram.  You know that with me there is no need of explanation:  I know every hindrance in life and I never blame the hearts that I know.—­I wish that, right away, if you have a moment to write, you would tell me where I should go for three days to see the coast of Normandy without striking the neighborhood where “The world” goes.  In order to go on with my novel, I must see a countryside near the Channel, that all the world has not talked about, and where there are real natives at home, peasants, fisherfolk, a real village in a corner of the rocks.  If you are in the mood we will go there together.  If not, don’t bother about me.  I go everywhere and I am not disturbed by anything.  You told me that the population of the coasts was the best in the country, and that there were real dyed-in-the-wool simple-hearted men there.  It would be good to see their faces, their clothes, their houses, and their horizons.  That is enough for what I want to do, I need only accessories; I hardly want to describe; seeing it is enough in order not to make a false stroke.  How is your mother?  Have you been able to take her to walk and to distract her a little?  Embrace her for me as I embrace you.