written to you to-day, even if I had not received your
letter. You will forgive that what I have written should have been
scratched in the utmost haste to save the post. I can't even read it
over. There's the effect of going out to walk the first thing in the
morning....

Your ever affectionate
BA--to both of you.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees:
Christmas Eve, [1851].

What can you have thought of me? That I was shot or deserved to be?
Forgive in the first instance, dearest friend, and believe that I won't
behave so any more, if in any way I can help it.

Tell me your thought now about L. Napoleon. He rode under our windows on
December 2 through an immense shout from the Carrousel to the Arc de
l'Etoile. There was the army and the sun of Austerlitz, and even I
thought it one of the grandest of sights; for he rode there in the name
of the people, after all....

But we know men most opposed to him, writers of the old 'Presse' and
'National,' and Orleanists, and Legitimists, and the fury of all such I
can scarcely express to you after the life. Emile de Girardin and his
friends had a sublime scheme of going over in a body to England, and
establishing a Socialist periodical, inscribing on their new habitation,
'Ici c'est la France.' He actually advertised for sale his beautiful
house close by in the Champs-Elysees, asked ten thousand pounds
(English) for it; and would have been 'rather disappointed,' as one of
his sympathising friends confessed to us, if the offer had been
accepted. I heard a good story the other day. A lady visitor was
groaning politically to Madame de Girardin over the desperateness of the
situation. 'Il n'y a que Celui, qui est en haut, qui peut nous en
tirer,' said she, casting up her eyes. 'Oui, c'est vrai,' replied
Madame, 'il le pourrait, lui,' glancing towards the second floor, where
Emile was at work upon feuilletons. Not that she mistakes him habitually
for her deity, by any manner of means, if scandal is to be listened to.

I hear that Lamennais is profoundly disgusted. He said to a friend of
ours, that the French people were 'putrefied to the heart.' Which means
that they have one tradition still dear to them (the name of Napoleon)
and that they put no faith in the Socialistic prophets. Wise or unwise
they may be accordingly; but an affection and an apprehension can't
reasonably be said to amount to a 'putrefacti