FLAUBERT Gustave (1821-1880).

16 L.A.S. " Gve Flaubert", Croisset and Paris 1858-1867, to Paule and Jules SANDEAU; 40 pages in-8 mostly on blue paper, mounted on laid paper, all bound in one volume in-4 bradel grey cloth, title-piece on the spine (period binding). Beautiful literary correspondence, friendly and intimate to the Sandeaus. [The writer Jules Sandeau (1811-1883), who was George Sand's lover, married in 1842 Pauline Portier (1821-1883); he was elected to the Académie française in 1858. In his letters to Mme Sandeau, Flaubert reveals himself without pretense, relates his daily pains, his physical and emotional affections, while indulging in a game of seduction which was not to leave his interlocutor insensitive. Indeed, it seems that Paule It seems that Paule Sandeau had a certain unacknowledged passion for the writer. Caroline Franklin-Grout, Flaubert's niece, alluded to this in her memoirs, Heures d'autrefois: "in the desire to take care of my person, there was, I have since guessed, the desire to display her intimacy with my uncle. How far this intimacy went, I cannot say. She was certainly very coquettish with him, but he, I believe, was wary of her; he was somewhat afraid of the ascendancy that a woman of ambitious character might take over him. This correspondence is also remarkable for the literary judgments that Flaubert makes about Hugo, in particular, or Baudelaire. - He also talks about his work as a writer, and his novels: Madame Bovary, Salammbô and L'Éducation sentimentale. This correspondence was revealed by André Doderet in the Revue de Paris of July 15 and August 1, 1919]. To Jules Sandeau. Croisset January 26 [1862], on the subject of BAUDELAIRE's candidacy for the BAUDELAIRE, and on the completion of Salammbô. "I received yesterday a letter from Baudelaire inviting me to solicit your vote for his candidacy for the Academy. Now as I find it insolent to give you advice in this matter, I beg you to give him your vote - if you have not already promised it to someone. The candidate promises me to tell you "what I think of him". You must know his works. As for me, certainly if I were of the honorable assembly, I should like to see him seated between Villemain & Nisard! what a picture! Do that! name it! it will be beautiful! it seems that S[ain]te-Beuve wants it, I know nothing of all these things in my little hole - being bent on the end of Carthage which will take place in two or three weeks - after which I will go and shake both your hands"... [Paris 28 February 1863]. He is about to leave: My little Mama is calling for me. Bouilhet has promised the corrections to his Faustine by the end of the next week. - week. We are both exhausted. I have not slept a wink for four nights now"... Monday morning [Paris, December 14, 1863]. "I am not going to see you because I suppose you are in all the trouble of a first. When will it take place? Is it tomorrow or the day after tomorrow? [...] And my place (or places). How will I get them? [This is La Maison de Penarvan, first performed at the Théâtre Français on December 15, 1863]. To Paule Sandeau. Croisset near Rouen [about June 12, 1858]. "Since I have been here I have done nothing but sleep, but now that I am beginning to wake up I am going to start on the Penarvan [La Maison de Pénarvan, novel by Jules Sandeau]. I am stunned by the calm and silence that surrounds me. - In the midst of all this, I thought of you... Croisset Sunday 7 [August 1859]. "It is very "pleasant for me to know that you are still in this world". I hope to see you there for a long time, and I intend this winter to resume our good talks on Thursdays, at about four o'clock in the evening, when the bourgeois & bourgeoises have gone! You suffer with indulgence all the nonsense that passes through my head. One is happy near you. How can I not come back? The heat is bothering you, then? You failed to add the epithet "tropical" when you wrote that word. It must be! (see all the newspapers & hear the exclamations of the red people waving handkerchiefs). [...] I am delighted with this temperature. The sun animates me and intoxicates me like wine. I spend my afternoons in negligees that are not very comfortable - windows closed and blinds shut. In the evening, I immerse myself in the Seine, which flows at the bottom of my garden. The nights are exquisite, and I go to bed at dawn. That's it. Besides, I love the night passionately. It penetrates me with a great calm. It is a mania, a vice. As for the troubles of the world