THERE was a great deal of sickness in
Paris. Grzymala had just spent seventeen days
without sleeping; Delacroix, more ill than
ever, dragged himself nevertheless to the Lux-
embourg. Chopin tried also to fight against his
solitude, and to keep up appearances as he had
done all these last years. But at length he was
forced to admit that he had not the courage to
leave his own hearth for an instant. New
Year's Day of 1847 arrived. He sent George
the customary bonbons, his best wishes, and,
smothered in coats, had himself driven to the
Hôtel Lambert, to his friends the Czartoryskis.

At Nohant they kept up the semblance of
happiness. Pantomime raged. The scenery
was brushed up, costumes sewn. This family,
so united, played out its comedy also. But sud-
denly the baggage was packed for return to
Paris early in January, leaving Solange's
fiancé, M. des Préaulx, flat. And hardly had
they been settled a month in the Square d'Or-

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