PARIS, _September, 1843_.
I am terribly dull without you, to use an expression that you affect. I
did not realise the other day, clearly at least, that we were saying
farewell for a long, long time. Is it true now that we shall see each
other no more? We separated without speaking, almost without looking at
each other. It was almost like a former occasion. I felt a sort of calm
happiness, which is not usual to me. It seemed to me for a few moments
that I desired nothing more. Now, if we can experience that happiness
again, why should we refuse it? It is true that we may quarrel again, as
we have done so many times. But what is the memory of a quarrel compared
to that of a reconciliation? If you feel about this half as I do you
must be anxious to go again for one of our walks. I am going away on a
short journey next week. Saturday, if you like, or even the Tuesday
following, we might meet.
I have not written sooner because I had persuaded myself that the
suggestion to revisit our woods would come from you. I was mistaken, but
I am not very much offended. You possess the secret of making me forget
many things, and of making sentiment take the place of reason. Let me
see you once more. I shall have no reproaches for you. One is fortunate
to be able thus to dream.