[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees:
Christmas Eve, [1851].

What can you have thought of me? That I was shot or deserved to be?
Forgive in the first instance, dearest friend, and believe that I won't
behave so any more, if in any way I can help it.

Tell me your thought now about L. Napoleon. He rode under our windows on
December 2 through an immense shout from the Carrousel to the Arc de
l'Etoile. There was the army and the sun of Austerlitz, and even I
thought it one of the grandest of sights; for he rode there in the name
of the people, after all....

But we know men most opposed to him, writers of the old 'Presse' and
'National,' and Orleanists, and Legitimists, and the fury of all such I
can scarcely express to you after the life. Emile de Girardin and his
friends had a sublime scheme of going over in a body to England, and
establishing a Socialist periodical, inscribing on their new habitation,
'Ici c'est la France.' He actually advertised for sale his beautiful
house close by in the Champs-Elysees, asked ten thousand pounds
(English) for it; and would have been 'rather disappointed,' as one of
his sympathising friends confessed to us, if the offer had been
accepted. I heard a good story the other day. A lady visitor was
groaning politically to Madame de Girardin over the desperateness of the
situation. 'Il n'y a que Celui, qui est en haut, qui peut nous en
tirer,' said she, casting up her eyes. 'Oui, c'est vrai,' replied
Madame, 'il le pourrait, lui,' glancing towards the second floor, where
Emile was at work upon feuilletons. Not that she mistakes him habitually
for her deity, by any manner of means, if scandal is to be listened to.

I hear that Lamennais is profoundly disgusted. He said to a friend of
ours, that the French people were 'putrefied to the heart.' Which means
that they have one tradition still dear to them (the name of Napoleon)
and that they put no faith in the Socialistic prophets. Wise or unwise
they may be accordingly; but an affection and an apprehension can't
reasonably be said to amount to a 'putrefaction,' I think. No, indeed.

Louis Napoleon is said to say (a bitter foe of his told me this) that
'there will be four phases of his life.' The first was all rashness and
imprudence, but 'it was necessary to make him known:' the second, 'the
struggle with and triumph over anarchy:' the third, 'the settlement of
France and the pacification of Europe:' the fourth, a _coup de pistolet.
Se non e vero, e ben trovato._ Nothing is more likely than the
catastrophe in any case; and the violence of the passions excited in the
minority makes me wonder at his surviving a day even. Do you know I
heard your idol of a Napoleon (the antique hero) called the other
evening through a black beard and gnashing teeth, 'le plus grand
scelerat du monde,' and his empire, 'le regne du Satan,' and his
marshals, 'les coquins.' After that, I won't tell you that 'le neveu' is
reproached with every iniquity possible to anybody's public and private
life. Perhaps he is not 'sans reproche' in respect to the latter, not
altogether; but one can't believe, and oughtn't, even infinitesimally,
the things which are talked on the subject....

Ah, I am so vexed about George Sand. She came, she has gone, and we
haven't met! There was a M. Francois who pretended to be her very very
particular friend, and who managed the business so particularly ill,
from some motive or some incapacity, that he did not give us an
opportunity of presenting our letter. He did not '_dare_' to present it
for us, he said. She is shy--she distrusts bookmaking strangers, and she
intended to be incognita while in Paris. He proposed that we should
leave it at the theatre, and Robert refused. Robert said he wouldn't
have our letter mixed up with the love letters of the actresses, or
perhaps given to the 'premier comique' to read aloud in the green room,
as a relief to the 'Chere adorable,' which had produced so much
laughter. Robert was a little proud and M. Francois very stupid; and I,
between the two, in a furious state of dissent from either. Robert tries
to smooth down my ruffled plumage now, by promising to look out for some
other opportunity, but the late one has gone. She is said to have
appeared in Paris in a bloom of recovered beauty and brilliancy of eyes,
and the success of her play, 'Le Mariage de Victorine,' was complete. A
strange, wild, wonderful woman, certainly. While she was here, she used
a bedroom which belongs to her son--a mere 'chambre de garcon'--and for
the rest, saw whatever friends she chose to see only at the 'cafe,'
where she breakfasted and dined. She has just finished a romance, we
hear, and took fifty-two nights to write it. She writes only at night.
People call her Madame Sand. There seems to be no other name for her in
society or letters.

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.