Again I return to my subject. Why have you not written to me? I shall now be, I don’t know how long, without any word from you, for my itinerary is too unsettled to designate any stopping-places. To sum it all up, I see no reason why I should not be furious. In all probability you are perfectly contented where you are, and I have no expectation of seeing you before winter, when the Opera will draw you back to Paris. Good-bye. When you desire to think of me, you shall see that I know how to be magnanimous. Do not send a letter to Privas, but to Clermont-Ferrand. I have just learned that I shall not be obliged to go to Privas. After leaving Clermont I shall go probably to Lyons, but you shall hear from me beforehand. CXII _August 10, 1846._ _On board a steamship, whose name I do not know._ I went to the mountains of Ardèche in search of a remote spot where there were neither electors nor candidates, but I found instead such swarms of fleas and of flies that I am in doubt whether elections are not preferable. Before leaving Lyons I received a letter from you which made me very happy, for I was really somewhat uneasy. Although I ought by now to be accustomed to your neglect of me, I can not help thinking, when I do not hear from you, that something extraordinary has happened to you. What would be truly extraordinary would be that you would condescend to think of me as often as I think of you. I regret to learn that you left for D. much later than you had expected, and that, in consequence, your return will be delayed. I do not doubt that you will enjoy yourself very much at D.; but if some thought of our walks should come to you while the pleasures that you love so well are at their height, you would be doing a meritorious act by hastening your return. I made a tremendous hit last night with my rustic companions by telling them ghost stories so gruesome that their hair stood on end. The moon shone magnificently, lighting up the regular features and sparkling black eyes of the young girls, without showing off their dirty stockings and the grease on their hands. I fell asleep feeling very proud of my success with an audience perfectly new to me. The next day, when I saw my Ardèchoises in the sunlight, with their villainous hands and feet, I almost regretted my eloquence of the preceding night. This infernal boat causes my pen to skip up and down in the most ridiculous fashion. One would have need of a special system of education to learn to write on a dancing table. I am too sleepy and tired to write another word, so I will say good-night. Write to me the day you arrive in Paris, and the following day we must see our woods again. I shall be in Paris the 18th at the latest; more probably I shall return the 15th. Again good-night. CXIII PARIS, _August 18, 1846_.