They have brought me here and I feel no better for it. Every day my
weakness increases. I still spit blood. Besides, what do they seek to
cure me of?
Yours as ever.


If I should never return to Paris, you will find in my wardrobe his last
toys; the traces of his little fingers are still visible on them. To the
left is the branch of the blessed box that used to hang at his bedside.
Let your hands alone touch all this. Burn these dear relics, this poor
evidence of shattered happiness. I can still see . . . Sobs are
choking me.

Farewell, dear friend. What would you? I built too high on too unstable
a soil. I loved one object too well.
Yours from my heart.




CHAPTER XXVI

OLD RECOLLECTIONS

Cover yourselves with fine green leaves, tall trees casting your peaceful
shade. Steal through the branches, bright sunlight, and you, studious
promenaders, contemplative idlers, mammas in bright toilettes, gossiping
nurses, noisy children, and hungry babies, take possession of your
kingdom; these long walks belong to you.