XXIV. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Paris, 10 November, 1866
On reaching Paris I learn sad news. Last evening, while we were
talking--and I think that we spoke of him day before yesterday--my
friend Charles Duveyrier died, a most tender heart and a most naive
spirit. He is to be buried tomorrow. He was one year older than I
am. My generation is passing bit by bit. Shall I survive it? I don't
ardently desire to, above all on these days of mourning and
farewell. It is as God wills, provided He lets me always love in
this world and in the next.
I keep a lively affection for the dead. But one loves the living
differently. I give you the part of my heart that he had. That
joined to what you have already, makes a large share. It seems to me
that it consoles me to make that gift to you. From a literary point
of view he was not a man of the first rank, one loved him for his
goodness and spontaneity. Less occupied with affairs and philosophy,
he would have had a charming talent. He left a pretty play, Michel
Perrin.
I travelled half the way alone, thinking of you and your mother at
Croisset and looking at the Seine, which thanks to you has become a
friendly GODDESS. After that I had the society of an individual with
two women, as ordinary, all of them, as the music at the pantomime
the other day. Example: "I looked, the sun left an impression like
two points in my eyes." HUSBAND: "That is called luminous points,"
and so on for an hour without stopping.
I shall do all sorts of errands for the house, for I belong to it,
do I not? I am going to sleep, quite worn out; I wept unrestrainedly
all the evening, and I embrace you so much the more, dear friend.
Love me MORE than before, because I am sad.