Do not be offended with me, dear friend, if I do not write to you. I have no encouraging news to give you of myself, and what is the advantage of sending you bad reports? The fact is, I am still dangerously ill, and I now realise that my malady is incurable. I have tried I know not how many infallible remedies; I have been in the hands of three or four physicians of great skill, not one of whom has given me the slightest relief. I am mistaken. Some time ago, in Nice, I came across an unusually intelligent man, somewhat of a charlatan, perhaps, who gave me, without pay, some capsules, which relieved me from a very painful feeling of suffocation which caused me great distress every night. Now, I suffer from it in the morning, but with less violence, and the attacks do not last so long. As for the bronchitis, which is the obstinate feature of my disease, it is well established. Suffering and sad as I am, I have not the strength to read, and I have, besides, hardly any books. These past days I have read with interest the _Mémoires d’un Paysan Écossais_, who by dint of intelligence and application became a man of letters, a professor of geology, and a celebrated man. Unfortunately, he cut his throat not long ago, hard work having, without doubt, affected his mind. Hugh Miller is his name. I think you will find my _Bear_ more presentable under his new form. Whenever I am able to paint I make illustrations for the story, so that when I return to Paris I may present it to the empress. Do not imagine that I am representing all the scenes--that one, for example, in which the bear forgets himself. Good-bye, dear friend. I regret for your sake that you will not return to Rome this year. Everything, it seems to me, is going wrong. There is no longer any Spain; soon there will be no Holy See. The loss will be more or less serious according to one’s point of view. But it is something which should be seen once (like many other things), in order that one may suffer no temptations nor regrets. Good-bye.... CCCXV CANNES, _March 19, 1869_. DEAR FRIEND: I have been very ill. I am now convalescent, very weak still, but out of all danger, so they tell me. It was an acute attack of bronchitis which aggravated my chronic bronchitis. For four or five days my life was in danger, but now I am up. I walk about in my room, and will be allowed soon to walk in the sunshine. Good-bye, dear friend. Health and prosperity. CCCXVI CANNES, _April 23, 1869_. DEAR FRIEND: I shall leave here day after to-morrow. I am in pretty poor plight, but I am obliged to leave this place. My cousin, in whose home I live, is dead, and his poor widow has no one with her. I am still very weak, but think I am able to endure the trip. I shall notify you as soon as I arrive, and hope to find you in good health. Good-bye, dear friend. CCCXVII PARIS, _Sunday, May 2, 1869_.