He has been my almost daily delight both here and when I was in Paris;
often the music of his _Paysages Tristes_ comes back to me, exactly
expressing the emotion of certain hours. His life is as touching as that
of a sick animal, and one almost wonders that a like indignity has not
withered the exquisite flowers of his poetry. His conversion, that of an
artist rather than of a thinker, followed on a great upsetting of his
existence which resulted from grave faults of his. (He was in prison.)

In the _Lys Rouge_ Anatole France has drawn a striking portrait of him,
under the name of Choulette; perhaps you will find we have this book.

In _Sagesse_ the poems are fine and striking because of the true impulse
and sincerity of the remorse. A little as though the cry of the _Nuit de
Mai_ resounded all through his work.

Our two great poets of the last century, Musset and Verlaine, were two
unhappy beings without any moral principle with which to stake up their
flowers of thought--yet what magnificent and intoxicating flowers.

Perhaps I tire you when I speak thus on random subjects, but to do so
enables me to plunge back into my old life for a little while. Since I
had the happiness of getting your letters, I have not taken note of
anything. Do not think that distractions by the way make me forgetful of
our need and hope, but I believe it is just the beautiful adornment of
life which gives it, for you and me, its value.

I am still expecting letters from you after that of the 22nd, but I am
sure to get them here in this billet. Thank you for the parcel you
promise: poor mothers, what pains they all take!