This is not a letter from Goulard. He is dead! The false Goulard killed him by surpassing him in the real and the comic. But this false Goulard also does not deny himself anything, the rascal!
Dear friend, I must tell you that I want to dedicate to you my novel which is just coming out. But as every one has his own ideas on the subject — as Goulard would say — I would like to know if you permit me to put at the head of my title page simply: to my friend Gustave Flaubert. I have formed the habit of putting my novels under the patronage of a beloved name. I dedicated the last to Fromentin.
I am waiting until it is good weather to ask you to come to dine at Palaiseau with Goulard’s Sirenne, and some other Goulards of your kind and of mine. Up to now it has been frightfully cold and it is not worth the trouble to come to the country to catch a cold.
I have finished my novel, and you?
I kiss the two great diamonds which adorn your face.
The elder Goulard is my little Lambert, it seems to me that he is quite literary in that way.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:54