I am still ill and suffering, and am awakened every morning in a state of suffocation, which soon passes. The solitude here is still complete. I happened in at the Imperial Club yesterday and found there but three persons, and they were asleep. The weather is insupportably warm and sultry; as a change, they write me from Scotland that for forty days it has rained in torrents, in consequence of which the potatoes are ruined and the grain killed. I am taking advantage of my solitude to work on something which I promised my master, and which I should like to take to him at Biarritz, but I am making slow progress. I have the greatest difficulty in doing anything at all, as the least excitement causes me intense suffering. I hope, however, to finish before the end of next week.... I have for you a copy of _Stenka Razine_. Remind me to give it to you when I see you, and also to show you the portrait of a gorilla which I drew in London, and with whom I was on terms of intimacy; ‘tis true, he was stuffed. I am reading little but Roman history; nevertheless, I have read with great pleasure the nineteenth volume of M. Thiers. It seems to me to be more carelessly written than the preceding volumes, but it is full of curious things. In spite of his desire to say ill of his hero, he is continually carried away by his involuntary affection for him. He tells me that he will finish the twentieth volume in December, and that he will then make a trip around the world, or else go to Italy. There are stories of Montrond which interested me immensely; only I regretted that he could not have heard them told while he was in this world. It seems to me that M. Thiers describes him fairly enough, as an adventurer in love with his trade, and honest in his dealings with his principals so long as he was in their employ--quite like Dalgetty in the _Legend of Montrose_. Judging by what I can see, our artists accept kindly the little rule which we have outlined for the Exposition in London; but when they shall see the position given them, I am not sure but they will throw baked apples at us. I have succeeded in extracting from M. Duchâtel the promise to lend us _The Spring_ of M. Ingres. Good-bye, dear friend. CCXLV BIARRITZ, _September 20, 1861_. DEAR FRIEND: I am still here, like the bird on the branch. It is not the custom to form plans in advance; on the contrary, never until the last moment does one make a resolution. Nothing has been said as to the time of our departure, yet the days are growing shorter. The most tedious time of the day is the evening; it is cold after dinner, and with the arrangement of doors and windows invented here it is impossible to keep warm. All this makes me think that we shall not stay here much longer.