_Thursday night, March 1, 1843._
I was very much afraid I should not be able to see you Saturday, when I
had been promising myself to give you a good scolding for your
indifference the other day. But I have succeeded in overcoming all the
obstacles. So, then, Saturday. It is a long time since we have had a
falling out. Do you not think this very pleasant, and greatly preferable
to the quarrels we used to have, the only benefit of which was our
reconciliations? You still have one fault, however, that of making
yourself so scarce. We see each other hardly once in a fortnight. Each
time there seems to be a new crust of ice to be broken. Why do I not
find you again just as you were when I left you? If we met oftener this
would not happen. To you I am like an old opera which you must needs
forget in order to hear it again with any pleasure. I, on the contrary,
would love you better, I think, were I to see you every day. Prove to me
that I am wrong, and appoint a day in the near future when I may see
you.
My fate at the Academy will be decided March 14. Reason tells me to
hope, but some vague feeling of presentiment tells me just the opposite.
In the meanwhile, I am making calls most conscientiously. People are
extremely polite, perfectly accustomed to the parts they are playing,
and taking them seriously. I am doing my very best to take mine equally
seriously, but that is difficult for me to accomplish. Do you not think
it comical that some one should say to a man, “Monsieur, I consider
myself one among the forty of the most intellectual men in France--I am
quite your equal,” and other remarks equally as facetious? Of course,
this must be said in a variety of ways, according to the person to whom
I speak. This is my occupation at present, and if it lasts much longer I
shall be perfectly exhausted. The 14th corresponds to the Ides of March,
the day when my hero, the late Caesar, died. This is ominous, is it not?