PARIS, _February 9, 1843_.
I was very uneasy when no word came from you. Not that I feared you had
changed your mind, but I thought you were ill, and chided myself for
taking you that long walk, returning through the wind and rain.
Fortunately, it was the post-office, taking its Sunday holiday, which
kept me waiting for your letter. Although the delay caused me intense
suffering, I did not for a single moment blame you. I am glad to tell
you this, so that you may know that I am overcoming my faults, as you
also are overcoming yours. Good-bye, then, for a little while. My eyes
no longer pain me. Yours, I fancy, sparkle as brightly as ever. What
mountains we make out of molehills! Would it not have been a mistake not
to see each other again?
I am very blue and miserable. One of my intimate friends, whom I
intended to visit in London, has just suffered a stroke of paralysis. I
do not know whether it will be fatal, or, what would be even worse than
death, whether he will linger on in that frightful condition of
unconsciousness to which this disease brings the most brilliant minds. I
am uncertain whether I ought not to go to see him at once.
Write to me, I pray you, and say something sympathetic, so that I will
forget my gloomy forebodings.