_Wednesday night, January, 1843._
I have been waiting all day for a letter from you. I thought the
pavements dry enough, and the sky bright. But it appears that now you
must have sunshine like that of last Thursday. Besides, I am sure you
needed a long time to compose the letter which I received a while ago.
It is made up of blame and threats, all very gracefully expressed, as
you understand how to do. In the first place, I must thank you for your
frankness, to which I will reply with a frankness equal to your own.
To begin with the reproaches, I think you make a great deal out of
nothing. You have brooded over the affair until it has assumed an
importance that does not belong to it, so that you have succeeded in
making what even you yourself call _frivolities_ a star-chamber matter.
There is but one point which is worth the trouble of an explanation. You
speak to me of _precedents_, as if you believe that I am scheming with
all the patience and Machiavellianism of an old cabinet minister to
establish them. Refer a little to your memory, and you will see that
nothing is farther from the truth. If it were necessary to discuss the
question of precedents, I might mention that of the salon in the rue
Saint Honoré the first time I saw you again; then our first visit to the
Louvre, which came near costing me an eye. It all seemed a simple enough
matter at the time, but now it is another thing. You must have
discovered that sometimes I act upon impulse, but that I give it up as
soon as I realise that you are displeased; more frequently, however, my
impulses are limited to thoughts rather than to acts. Enough said
concerning reproaches and precedents.
As to your threats, be assured that I am keenly alive to them; and,
although fearing them greatly, nevertheless I can not forbear telling
you once more all that I think. Nothing would be easier than to make you
promises, but I feel that it would be impossible for me to keep them. Be
satisfied, then, to go on as we have in the past, or else let us stop
seeing each other.
I must tell you that even the obstinacy with which you set yourself in
opposition to these _frivolities_, as you call them, renders them all
the dearer to me, and makes me attach to them a new importance. This
seems to be the only proof that you are able to give me of your feelings
towards me. If I must resist the most innocent temptations in order to
see you, it is a saint’s labour which surpasses my strength. It would
be, unquestionably, a great pleasure to see you, but the condition of
transforming myself into a statue, like that king in the _Thousand and
One Nights_, is insupportable to me.
We have now come to a clear understanding with each other. You shall
decide, according to your wisdom, whether we are to postpone our next
walk several thousand years, or to the first bright day. You see I do
not accept your advice to practise hypocrisy. You knew beforehand that
this would be impossible. The only hypocrisy of which I am capable is to
conceal from the people I love all the pain they cause me. I can sustain
this effort for some time, but not forever. When you receive this
letter, it will have been a week since we met.
If you persist in your threats, write to me promptly. This will be on
your part a favour which I shall appreciate.