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Updated: May 8, 2025
All my dear world embraces you and rejoices to hear that you are better. Did I send you Flamarande and the pictures of my little girls? If not, send me a line, and I send you both. Your old troubadour who loves you, G. Sand Embrace your charming niece for me. What a good and lovely letter she wrote me! Tell her that I beg her to take care of herself and to please get well quickly.
Your poor Cruchard takes less and less pleasure in life, and he even has too much of it, infinitely too much. Let us speak of your books, that will be better. They have amused me, and the proof is that I have devoured with one gulp and one after another, Flamarande and the Deux Freres. What a charming woman is Madame Flamarande, and what a man is M. Salcede.
The narrative of the kidnapping of the child, the trip in the carriage, and the story of Zamora are perfect passages. Everywhere the interest is sustained and at the same time progressive. But what an abominable wretch is your M. Flamarande! As for the servant who tells the story and who is evidently in love with Madame, I wonder why you did not show more plainly his personal jealousy.
He will do me a favor if he sees it to his interest. Must I write him? Then you are going to start grubbing again? So am I; for since Flamarande I have done nothing but mark time, while waiting for something better. I was so ill all summer! but my strange and excellent friend Favre has cured me wonderfully, and I am taking a new lease on life. What's our next move?
I have finished going over the proofs of Flamarande. That is the most boring part of the task. I shall send you the book when it is published. I know that you do not like to read bit by bit. I am a little tired; however, I want to begin something else. Since it is not warm enough to go out, I get bored with not having anything on the stocks.
I go out every day, I exercise, and I come home tired, and still more irritated, that is the good I get out of it. It is in order not to bore you with my complaints that I write so rarely to you now, for no one has a livelier sense than I of my unbearableness. Send me Flamarande; that will give me a little air.
In the Revue des Deux Mondes, Malgrétout, the novel of 1870, was succeeded by Flamarande and Les Deux Frères compositions executed with unflagging energy and animation of style; La Tour de Percemont, and a series of graceful fairy-stories entitled Contes d'une grand'mère.
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