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Mannheim. March 17, 1901. My dear Paul, Despite the numerous lectures I have given Edmond, he has still not bothered to send you this news. The day before yesterday, I asked him yet again the now-usual question that I have already repeated so many times: Have you written Paul? And as is his worthy habit, his lips parted to let forth this sacred word: (no)! like a lout. So I want to prove to you that I, at least, have not forgotten you. I hope that you and Fernand feel the same way, and soon you will prove it to me by sending me a few lines of your prose. Nothing new here. How is Paris? How is your health? Here, everything is for the best; although Edmond cannot go to the office for now because he is going blind (in both eyes). Pass on my apologies to your parents; a hello to Fernand, and for you, a sincere handshake from your most devoted. Henri