ssages:

"February 4. _Read this when you are alone._

"MY DEAR BULOZ,--Your reproaches reach me at a miserable moment. If you
have received my letter, you already know that I do not deserve them.
A fortnight ago I was well again and working. Alfred was working too,
although he was not very well and had fits of feverishness. About five
days ago we were both taken ill, almost at the same time. I had an
attack of dysentery, which caused me horrible suffering. I have not yet
recovered from it, but I am strong enough, anyhow, to nurse him. He was
seized with a nervous and inflammatory fever, which has made such rapid
progress that the doctor tells me he does not know what to think about
it. We must wait for the thirteenth or fourteenth day before knowing
whether his life is in danger. And what will this thirteenth or
fourteenth day be? Perhaps his last one? I am in despair, overwhelmed
with fatigue, suffering horribly, and awaiting who knows what future?
How can I give myself up to literature or to anything in the world at
such a time? I only know that our entire fortune, at present, consists
of sixty francs, that we shall have to spend an enormous amount at the
chemist's, for the nurse and doctor, and that we are at a very expensive
hotel. We were just about to leave it and go to a private house. Alfred
cannot be moved now, and even if everything should go well, he probably
cannot be moved for a month. We shall have to pay one term's rent for
nothing, and we shall return to France, please God. If my ill-luck
continues, and if Alfred should die, I can assure you that I do not care
what happens after to me. If God allows Alfred to recover, I do not
know how we shall pay the expenses of his illness and of his return to
France. The thousand francs that you are to send me will not suffice,
and I do not know what we shall do. At any rate, do not delay sending
that, as, by the time it arrives, it will be more than necessary. I am
sorry about the annoyance you are having with the delay for publishing,
but you can now judge whether it is my fault. If only Alfred had a few
quiet days, I could soon finish my work. But he is in a frightful state
of delirium and restlessness. I cannot leave him an instant. I have been
nine hours writing this letter. Adieu, my friend, and pity me.

"GEORGE.

"Above everything, do not tell any one, not any one in the world, that
Alfred is ill. If his mother heard (and it only needs two persons for