A fortnight went by and she did not come, neither did I have a letter. I was almost at the end of my patience, although I would not write, when, on the 17th, Madame C. F. returned bringing me the following letter: “GENEVA, _16th December 1864_. “MONSIEUR,--I ought to have thanked you sooner for your charming welcome of my son and his wife had I not been unwell, and consequently, very idle. “But I cannot let my daughter-in-law go without my grateful thanks for all the pleasure you have given them. “Suzanne will tell you all about our life here; I should be as happy as in Lyons, were it not for my separation from my other two sons and from my dear old friends. “Once more, thank you for the libretto of _The Trojans_, and also for the sweet souvenir of the Meylan leaves--they bring back the bright, happy days of my youth. “My son and I will read the part of your work that you have marked, and shall think of Suzanne listening to your music on Sunday.” To which I replied: “PARIS, _19th December 1864_.--Last September, when at Grenoble, I visited one of my cousins, who lives near St Georges, a wretched hamlet niched into the most barren mountains on the left bank of the Drac, inhabited only by a few miserable peasants. “My cousin’s sister-in-law is the sweet providence of this forsaken corner, and on the day of my arrival she heard that one far-away family had had no bread for three weeks. “She started off at once to see the mother. “‘Why, Jeanne!’ she cried, ‘how could you be in trouble and not tell me? You know how anxious we are to help.’ “‘Oh, mademoiselle, we are not really in want yet; we still have some potatoes and a few cabbages, only the children don’t like them. They shout and cry for bread. You know children are so unreasonable.’ “Well, dear lady, you too have done a kind thing in writing. I would not write for fear of boring you, so waited for your daughter’s return. She came not! My anxiety choked me. You see, madame, creatures such as I are _unreasonable_. “Yet surely I--if anyone--hardly need to learn lessons that have been taught me already by so many knife-thrusts in my heart. “It seems to me that you are sad, and that makes me the more.... From to-day I mean to restrain my language, to talk of outward things only. “You know what is in my heart--all that I do not say.