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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 378 pages of information about The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters.

Well, you have written a masterpiece, that’s true! and a very amusing one.  My mother thinks it recalls to her stories that she heard while a child.  A propos of Vendee, did you know that her paternal grandfather was, after M. Lescure, the head of the Vendee army?  The aforesaid head was named M. Fleuriot d’Argentan.  I am not any the prouder for that; besides the thing is doubtful, for my grandfather, a violent republican, hid his political antecedents.

My mother is going in a few days to Dieppe, to her grandchild’s.  I shall be alone a good part of the summer, and I plan to grub.

“I labor much and shun the world. 
It is not at balls that the future is founded.” 
(Camilla Doucet.)

But my everlasting novel bores me sometimes in an incredible manner!  These tiny details are stupid to bother with!  Why annoy oneself about such a miserable subject?

I would write you at length about Cadio; but it is late and my eyes are smarting.

So, thank you, very kindly, my dear master.

XCIV.  To M. GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, at Croissset Paris, end of September, 1868

Dear friend,

It is for Saturday next, 3rd October.  I am at the theatre every evening from six o’clock till two in the morning.  They talk of putting mattresses behind the scenes for the actors who are not in front.  As for me, as used to wakefulness as you are, I experience no fatigue; but I should be very much bored if I had not the resource that one has always, of thinking of other things.  I am sufficiently accustomed to it to be writing another play while they are rehearsing, and there is something quite exciting in these great dark rooms where mysterious characters move, talking in low tones, in unexpected costumes; nothing is more like a dream, unless one imagines a conspiracy of patients escaped from Bicetre.

I don’t at all know what the performance will be.  If one did not know the prodigies of harmony and of vim which occur at the last moment, one would judge it all impossible, with thirty-five or forty speaking actors of whom only five or six speak well.  One spends hours over the exits and entrances of the characters in blue or white blouses who are to be the soldiers or the peasants, but who, meanwhile perform incomprehensible manoeuvres.  Still the dream.  One has to be a madman to put on these things.  And the frenzy of the actors, pale and worn out, who drag themselves to their place yawning, and suddenly start like crazy people to declaim their tirade; continually the assembling of insane people.

The censorship has left us alone as regards the manuscript; tomorrow these gentlemen will inspect the costumes, which perhaps will frighten them.

I left my dear world very quiet at Nohant.  If Cadio succeeds, it will be a little Dot for Aurore; that is all my ambition.  If it does not succeed, I shall have to begin over again, that is all.

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