through the French Consulate here.

Send the enclosed letter as it is to my parents; leave it at
the postoffice yourself.

Yours,

CHOPIN.

George Sand relates in "Un Hiver a Majorque" that the first days
which her party passed at the Son-Vent (House of the Wind)--this
was the name of the villa they had rented--were pretty well taken
up with promenading and pleasant lounging, to which the delicious
climate and novel scenery invited. But this paradisaic condition
was suddenly changed as if by magic when at the end of two or
three weeks the wet season began and the Son-Vent became
uninhabitable.

The walls of it were so thin that the lime with which our
rooms were plastered swelled like a sponge. For my part I
never suffered so much from cold, although it was in reality
not very cold; but for us, who are accustomed to warm
ourselves in winter, this house without a chimney was like a
mantle of ice on our shoulders, and I felt paralysed. Chopin,
delicate as he was and subject to violent irritation of the
larynx, soon felt the effects of the damp.

We could not accustom ourselves to the stifling odour of the
brasiers, and our invalid began to ail and to cough.