You understand now, ever dearest Miss Mitford, how the pause has come about writing. The week at Paris! Such a strange week it was, altogether like a vision. Whether in the body or out of the body I cannot tell scarcely. Our Balzac should be flattered beyond measure by my thinking of him at all. Which I did, but of _you_ more. I will write and tell you more about Paris. You should go there indeed. And to our hotel, if at all. Once we were at the Louvre, but we kept very still of course, and were satisfied with the _idea_ of Paris. I could have borne to live on there, it was all so strange and full of contrast....
Now you will write--I feel my way on the paper to write this. Nothing is changed between us, nothing can ever interfere with sacred confidences, remember. I do not show letters, you need not fear my turning traitress.... Pray for me, dearest friend, that the bitterness of old affections may not be too bitter with me, and that God may turn those salt waters sweet again.
[Footnote 149: This letter is of earlier date than the last, having been written _en route_ between Orleans and Lyons; but it has seemed better to place the more detailed narrative first.]
_To Mrs. Martin_ [Pisa:] November 5, [1846].