_Thursday, January, 1843._
Let us take advantage of the fine weather to-day.
_Onc homme n’eut les dieux tant à la main,_
_Qu’asseuré fut de vivre au lendemain_.[6]
At the appointed place, then, “at two o’clock to-morrow, Thursday.” I
say to-day, for it is now one o’clock. The stars are shining brightly,
and as I returned a while ago from the ministerial assembly, I found the
walking as tolerable as it was the last time we were out. Wear your
seven-league boots, however--it is safer. If by chance you should be out
when this letter arrives, I shall wait for you until half past two; if
you do not come at all to-day, then Saturday. To any one else but you I
should say something else.
I wished to write you a letter to-day, but remembering my promise, I
have decided not to do so. I did wrong. You should have appointed the
day and the hour, which would have saved us the inconvenience of missing
each other. I hope, however, that this will not happen. I suppose you
are really anxious to take this walk, for your letter is colder than
usual. There is a charming equipoise in your actions. You are unwilling
that I should ever be perfectly happy, so you make your plans in advance
to put me in a rage. This will be, perhaps, more difficult than you
think, for although I have been ill for two days, the world to-day looks
rose-colour.
I dined yesterday at a house where, as I entered the room late, among a
lot of women I thought I saw you. Consequently I was struck dumb for a
quarter of an hour. I did not glance in the direction of the person I
supposed to be you, unable to decide, as is always the case when one is
embarrassed, whether to speak to you or not.
Making a desperate effort finally, I walked up to the lady, who turned
out to be a Spanish woman whom I had met several times. It only rests
with her to believe _che ha fatto colpo_. I am sending you Dickens’
_Sketches_, which amused me when I read them. You may have read them
already, but no matter! At two o’clock, then, to-day, Thursday.