hear, and took fifty-two nights to write it. She writes only at night.
People call her Madame Sand. There seems to be no other name for her in
society or letters.

Now listen. Alexandre Dumas _does_ write his own books, that's a fact.
You know I always maintained it, through the odour of Dumas in the
books, but people swore the contrary with great foolish oaths worth
nothing. Maquet prepares historical materials, gathers together notes,
and so on, but Dumas writes every word of his books with his own hand,
and with a facility amounting to inspiration, said my informant. He
called him a great savage negro child. If he has twenty sous and wants
bread, he buys a pretty cane instead. For the rest, 'bon enfant,' kind
and amiable. An inspired negro child! In debt at this moment, after all
the sums he has made, said my informant--himself a most credible witness
and highly cultivated man.

I heard of Eugène Sue, too, yesterday. Our child is invited to a
Christmas tree and party, and Robert says he is too young to go, but I
persist in sending him for half an hour with Wilson--oh, really I
must--though he will be by far the youngest of the thirty children
invited. The lady of the house, Miss Fitton, an English resident in
Paris, an elderly woman, shrewd and kind, said to Robert that she had a
great mind to have Eugène Sue, only he was so scampish. I think that was
the word, or something alarmingly equivalent. Now I should like to see
Eugène Sue with my little innocent child in his arms; the idea of the
combination pleases me somewhat. But I sha'n't see it in any case. We
had three cold days last week, which brought back my cough and took away
my voice. I am dumb for the present and can't go out any more....

At last I have caught sight of an advertisement of your book. A very