VII.
From Léon Verdier in Paris, to Prosper Gobain, at Lille.
My Dear Prosper—
It is a long time since I have given you of my news, and I don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions, and je t'en ai trop dit, dans le bon temps, mon gros Prosper, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy to-day. Nous en sommes nous flanquées, des confidences—in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure poindre à l'horizon was of the pleasure I should have in re-
