“The annoying part is that, thanks to these delays, my work is getting a sort of advance reputation that may injure it in the end. “I am getting on with a one-act opera for Baden, written round Shakespeare’s _Much Ado About Nothing_. It is called _Beatrice and Benedict_; I promise there shall not be much _Ado_ in the shape of noise in it. Benazet, the king of Baden, wants it next year. “An American director has offered me an engagement in the _Dis_united States; but his proposals are unavailing in view of my unconquerable antipathy to his great nation, and my love of money is not sufficiently great to prick me on. I do not know whether your love for American _utilitarian_ manners and customs is any more intense than my own. “In any case, it would be a great mistake to go far from Paris now; at any moment they might want _The Trojans_.” * * * * * “_30th June 1862._--In my bereavement I can write but little. “My wife is dead--struck down in a moment by heart disease. The frightful loneliness, after the wrench of this sudden parting, is indescribable. Forgive me for not saying more.” _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. “_January 1858._--Perhaps you have heard that a band of ruffians surrounded the Emperor’s carriage as he went to the opera. They threw a bomb that killed and wounded both men and horses, but, by great good luck, did not touch the Emperor; and the charming Empress did not lose her head for a moment. The courage and presence of mind of both were perfect. “I have just had a long letter from M. von Bulow, Liszt’s son-in-law, who married Mlle. Cosima. He tells me that he performed my _Cellini_ overture with the greatest success at a Berlin concert. He is one of the most fervent disciples of that crazy school of the ‘Music of the Future,’ as they call it in Germany.” “They stick to it, and want me to be their leader and standard-bearer, but I write nothing, say nothing, but just let them go their way. Good sense will teach reasonable people the truth.” * * * * * “_May 1858._--The foreign mail leaves to-morrow, and I must have a chat with you, dear Louis. I long for news. Are you well? happy? “Here we are rather miserable. I am somewhat better, but my wife is nearly always in bed and in pain.” * * * * * “_November 1860._--Dear Boy,--Here is a hundred-franc note. Be sure to acknowledge it. I am thankful you are better. I, too, think my disease is wearing itself out. I am certainly better since I gave up remedies. Ideas for my little opera throng in so fast that I cannot find time to write; sometimes I begin a new one before I finish the old.”