CHAPTER XVIII

“The Cypresses have their caprices”

“To Madame Louise Jedrzeïewicz.

“Paris, _Monday, June 25, 1849._

“My dearly beloveds,

“If you can, come. I am ill, and no doctor can help me as you can. If you need money, borrow it; when I am better I can easily make it and return it to whoever lends it to you, but just now I am too broke to be able to send you anything. My Chaillot apartment is big enough to receive you, even with the two children. Little Louise will benefit in every way. Papa Calasante[1] shall run about all day long; we have the Agricultural Products Exhibition close to us here; in a word, he will have much more time for himself than he did the other time, because I am weaker, and shall stay more in the house with Louise. My friends and all my well-wishers are convinced that the best remedy for me would be the arrival of Louise, as she will certainly learn from Mme. Obreskow’s letter. So get your passport. People whom Louise does not know, one from the North, and one from the South, told me to-day that it would benefit, not only my health, but also my sister’s.

[Footnote 1: His brother-in-law.]

“So, mother Louise and daughter Louise, bring your thimbles and your needles. I’ll give you handkerchiefs to mark, socks to knit, and you shall spend your time for a few months in the fresh air with your old brother and uncle. The journey is easier now; also you don’t need much luggage. We’ll try to be happy here on very little. You shall find food and shelter. And even if sometimes Calasante finds that it is far from the Champs Elysées to town, he can stay in my apartment in the Square d’Orléans. The omnibus goes right from the Square to my door here. I don’t know myself why I want so much to have Louise, it’s like the longing of a pregnant woman. I swear to you that it will be good for her, too. I hope that the family council will send her to me: who knows whether I shan’t take her back when I am well! Then we could all rejoice and embrace each other, as I have already written, but without wigs and with our own teeth. The wife always owes obedience to her husband; so it’s the husband whom I beg to bring his wife; I beg it with my whole heart, and if he weighs it well he will see that he cannot give a greater pleasure either to her, or to me, or do a greater service even to the children, if he should bring one of them. (As to the little girl I do not doubt it.) It will cost money, it is true, but it cannot be better spent nor could you travel more cheaply. Once here, your quarters will be provided. Write me a little word. Mme. Obreskow, who had the kindness to want to write (I have given her Louise’s address), will perhaps be more persuasive. Mlle. de Rozières will also add a word, and Cochet, if he were here, would speak for me, because there is no doubt that he would find me no better. His Æsculapius has not shown himself for ten days because he has at last perceived that there is something in my sickness that passes his science. In spite of that, you must praise him to your tenant, and to all who know him, and say that he has done me a great deal of good; but my head is made that way: when I am a little bit better, that’s enough for me. Say also that everyone is convinced that he has cured a quantity of people of cholera. The cholera is diminishing a great deal; it has almost disappeared. The weather is superb; I am sitting in the salon from where I can admire the whole panorama of Paris: the towers, the Tuileries, the Chambres, St.-Germain l’Auxerrois, St. Etienne du Mont, Notre-Dame, the Panthéon, St. Sulpice, Val de Grâce, the five windows of the Invalides, and between these buildings and me nothing but gardens. You will see it all when you come. Now get busy on the passport and the money, but do it quickly. Write me a word at once. You know that the cypresses have their caprices: my caprice to-day is to see you in my house. Maybe God will permit everything to go well: but if God does not wish it, act at least as though He did. I have great hope, because I never ask for very much, and I should have refrained from this also if I had not been urged on by all who wish me well. Bestir yourself, Monsieur Calasante. In return, I shall give you _huge_ and excellent cigars; I know someone who smokes marvellous ones—in the garden, mind you! I hope the letter I wrote for Mamma’s birthday arrived, and that I did not miss the date too far. I don’t want to think of all that because it makes me feverish, and, thank God, I have no fever, which disconcerts and vexes all the ordinary doctors.

“Your affectionate but very feeble brother,

“Ch.”