VÉZELAY, _August 8, 1843, at night_.
I thank you for having written a word to me before my departure. It is
the kind intention that has pleased me, not what your letter tells me.
You say such extraordinary things. If you mean half of what you say it
would be the wisest course for us not to meet again. The affection which
you have for me is only a sort of mental pastime. You are all intellect.
You are one of those chilly women of the North who are governed only by
the mind. There are things I could say to you, but you would not
understand. I prefer to assure you again of my sincere regret for having
caused you pain. It was entirely unintentional, and I hope you will
forgive me. Our temperaments are as unlike as our _stamina_. How can it
be helped? You may divine my thoughts sometimes, but you will never be
able to understand them.
Here I am in this horrible little town, perched on the top of a
mountain, bored to death by the townspeople, and hard at work on a
speech that I am to make to-morrow. I am in politics, and you know me
well enough to realise how odious I find the business of a political
campaign.
For consolation, I have a most congenial travelling companion, and an
admirable church to look upon. The first time I saw this church was soon
after having seen you at.... I asked myself to-day whether we were more
foolish then than we are now.
What is certain is that we had formed, probably, a very different
impression of each other from the one we have to-day. If we had known
then how often we should quarrel, do you suppose we would have cared to
meet again? It is frightfully cold, with rain and lightning at
intervals. I have a ream of official prose to spin off, and will leave
you all the more cheerfully because the things I should write to you are
not particularly affectionate. It is, however, the force of
circumstances that irritates me most.
I go to Dijon in a few days. It would please me if you would write to me
there, especially if your pen could find something less cruel to write
than it did last time. You can not form an idea of one of our evenings
at the inn. One of the most charming plans of which I have thought is to
go somewhere in Italy to spend the time that must intervene between my
political tour and the trip to Algiers. You, I fancy, are thinking of
some way to be in the country when I return to Paris. What will be the
result of all these plans?
As I was leaving Paris I met M. de Saulcy, who had just received a
letter from Metz. Your brother was spoken of in the highest terms, which
is very gratifying to those who recommended him. I should have written
this earlier but for the thousand and one annoyances incident to my
departure.
Good-bye. I believe this little talk with you has made me feel better.
If I had more paper, and not so many reports to prepare, I think I might
be capable now of saying something affectionate. As you are aware, my
attacks of temper usually end in that way.
At Dijon, General Delivery, and do not forget my titles and degrees!