PARIS, _Friday morning, November 3, 1843_.
Is it possible that you mean all you write me? What, then, is this
strange diffidence which prevents you from being frank, and which makes
you try to invent the most extraordinary lies, rather than let escape
from you one word of truth, which would please me so much to hear? Among
the good sentiments of which you speak there is one, you say, that I do
not understand; and, since you do not try to make me understand it, I am
unable even to guess it. I confess I am no more clever with the two
others.
Do you believe in the devil? To my mind the whole thing hinges on that.
If you are afraid of him, take care that he does not carry you off. If,
as I imagine, the devil is out of the question in this case, it remains
only to inquire whether one harms or wrongs some one else. I am telling
you my catechism. I think it is better than yours, but I will not vouch
for it. I have never made an effort to convert any one, but neither has
any one, to the present time, been able to convert me. You reproach
yourself, moreover, much more severely than I have ever reproached you.
Sometimes, ‘tis true, I yield to sadness and impatience; but I accuse
you with nothing, except occasionally that lack of frankness which keeps
me in an attitude of almost continual suspicion, forced as I am to seek
for your meaning under a disguise. If I were convinced of the truth of
what you said the other day I should be very unhappy, for I could not
bear to make you suffer. You see, however, that from saying sometimes
one thing, sometimes another, you make me doubt everything. I no longer
know what you think, what you feel. For once, at least, write to me
openly.