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Châlon-sur-Saône, June 30, 1842.

You guessed correctly the end of the story: the dervish was imposed upon by the baker, but, all the same, the holy man did not like brown bread.

I am in a city which is particularly odious to me, alone in an inn, listening to a frightful south-east wind. It parches everything it touches, and the harmonies produced as it whistles down the corridors are enough to bring the devil up to earth. The result is that I am furious with all nature. I am writing to you in order to cheer me a little, and I am comforted by the thought that in your approaching journey you will have many such days as this. I saw in Saint Vincent’s church an exceedingly pretty young girl making stations. Isn’t that what you call the prayers, or something of the sort, that are said before a series of pictures representing the principal scenes of the Passion? Her mother was near, watching over her with strict attention. While taking notes on ancient Byzantine columns, I asked myself what this young girl could have done to merit such a penance. The case must have been one of deep gravity.

Have you become deeply pious, following the general fashion of the day? You must be pious for the same reason that you must wear a blue cashmere. I should be sorry, however, if this were so. Our piety here in France is repugnant to me. It is a sort of mediocre philosophy, which springs not from the heart, but from the mind. When you have seen the devotion of the common people in Italy, you will agree with me, I hope, that theirs is the only genuine religion; only one must be born beyond the Alps or the Pyrenees to believe this.

You can not conceive of the disgust which I feel for our society of the present day. One would suppose that it has tried in every way possible to add to the burden of suffering necessary to the management of society. I shall await your return from Italy; you will have seen there a state of society where, on the contrary, everything contributes to render existence more agreeable and more tolerable. We shall then resume our discussions on the subject of hypocrisy, and it is possible that we shall come to an understanding.

I have spent almost the entire winter studying mythology from old Latin and Greek archives. It has proved to be extremely entertaining, and if there should ever come into your head the desire to know the record of the thoughts of men, which is vastly more interesting than the history of their deeds, inquire of me, and I will recommend three or four books for your reading which will make you as wise as I—and this is saying no little!

How are you employing your time? I sometimes ask myself this question, without being able to give a satisfactory answer. If I had to cast your horoscope I should predict that you would end by writing a book; it is the inevitable result of the sort of life you lead, and which all the women of France are leading. First, there is imagination, and sometimes affection; then follows hypocrisy, after which one attains to the pious stage; and finally, one becomes an author. God grant that you may never reach that point!

I hope to see Madame de M. in Paris this year. If she comes, I should like to have you meet her. You would then discover that brown bread is more difficult to make than you seem to think. If you are willing, nothing will be easier than to make the acquaintance of this baker.

Good-bye. The wind continues to blow. I am obliged to remain a month in the country, and if you have any time to spare, and wish to give me a great deal of pleasure, you have only to write to me at Avignon, where I shall call for your letter.