PARIS, _Sunday, February 11, 1843_.
I am not quite sure whether I should believe implicitly all that your
letter tells me of your indisposition, and of the affairs that detain
you. Among all the pleasant things that you say, I think it is clear
that you are not particularly anxious to see me. Am I mistaken, or is it
that I am so unaccustomed to your soft words that I can not believe them
true? Tuesday, shall you be well, shall you be unengaged, shall you be
as sweet-tempered as you were last Wednesday? The weather yesterday
afternoon was superb; perhaps we shall be as fortunate next Tuesday, if
my barometer does not deceive me.
I have something for you, which you will probably think very silly.
Since seeing you I have run around considerably, and have played a
number of Academic tricks. I am not in good practice, which is to my
disadvantage, but I believe I can soon pick it up again. To-day I have
visited five illustrious writers of poems or prose, and if night had not
overtaken me I am not sure that I could not have finished up my
thirty-six visits at a single stretch. It is ludicrous when rivals
happen to meet. Some of them look at me as if they would like to eat me
alive. I am, indeed, thoroughly worn out with all these dutycalls, and
it would be delightful to forget them all during an hour spent with you.