PARIS, _September, 1843_.
Our letters crossed. You realise now, I hope, that my anger, which I now
regret deeply, was not caused by what you imagine. Your letter proves,
however, that it is impossible for us not to quarrel. We are too unlike.
You are wrong to repent of what you have done. I was wrong to wish you
to be other than what you are. I beg you to believe that I have not
changed. I regret more than all having left you as I did, but there are
moments when one can not be composed. I want to see you now that we may
repeat one of our beautiful dreams of last summer, and to bid you a long
farewell, leaving you with a sweet and tender mood.
You will, of course, consider my idea ridiculous. Yet it pursues me, and
I can not help telling it to you. You will be quite justified in
refusing. I think I now have sufficient self-control not to lose my
temper. I am not sure, however; yet whatever you decide will be right. I
can only promise that I have the very best intentions to be calm and
patient.