I have been to Saintonge for a few days, and returned only yesterday. The weather was uninterruptedly abominable, and I brought back an extinguished voice and a frightful cold. I found the people there profoundly distressed, and weeping their eyes out over the misfortunes of the Holy Father and General Lamoricière. General Changarnier has given a description of his colleague’s campaign, in which, I am told, after praising him to the skies, he shows him to have been guilty of huge blunders. In my opinion the only one of the martyr heroes who is not ridiculous is Pimodan, who died like a brave soldier. Those who pose as martyrs because they were taken prisoner are rascals on whom I waste no pity. The present times, moreover, are perfectly absurd, and it does me good to read my newspaper every morning to learn of some new catastrophe, to read the remarks of Cavour or the encyclicals. I see that Walker was shot in America, which caused me some surprise, for his case is similar to that of Garibaldi, whom we all admire. Did you think my photograph a good resemblance? I enclose a better one, or, at least, one with a less lugubrious expression. I should be glad to give you some news of Paris, but no one is here. I envy you for being in the sunshine. If you have any commissions for me, I shall be in Paris still a month or more. You do not mention the cooking of the country. Do you have anything good to eat? If so, get the recipe. Good-bye, dear friend. CCXXVI PARIS, _October 16, 1860_. DEAR FRIEND: I received yours of the 5th by slow transportation. I imagine there was one of those wind-storms of which the newspaper tells every morning. The Mediterranean is playing tricks, it seems, this year. I envy you the sunshine and warmth which you enjoy. Here there is constant rain or fog; sometimes it is warm and humid, more frequently cold and humid, but always as disagreeable as possible. Paris is still completely empty of people. I spend my evenings reading, and sometimes sleeping. Night before last, wishing to hear some music, I went to the Italian opera. They gave _The Barber of Seville_. This music, which is the gayest ever written, was sung by people who acted as if they were returning from a funeral. Mademoiselle Alboni, who was _Rosine_, sang admirably, with the notes of a bird. Gardoni sang like a gentleman who was afraid of being mistaken for an actor. If I had been Rossini, it seems to me I should have shaken them all. The _Basile_ was the only one (I can not remember his name) who sang as if he had any appreciation of the words.